


The Three Brothers: Book One

by rahul24248



Series: The Three Brothers [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Gen Work, Hogwarts Era, Hogwarts First Year, Hogwarts Second Year, Hogwarts Third Year, Magic and Science, Magical Realism, Magical Theory, Major Original Character(s), Natural Legilimens, Original Character-centric, Search for a Cure, Slow Build, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2019-11-14 21:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 93,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18060854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rahul24248/pseuds/rahul24248
Summary: Mark is a First-Gen wizard and a Natural Legilimens. Reluctant to go to Hogwarts, he's soon drawn into the budding conflict between Harry Potter and Voldemort. Not to mention all the mysterious happenings and secrets that he stumbles upon at his new school. All he wants to do is make new friends and possibly, just possibly, find a cure for his father.Original Character Centric AU story with parallel narratives. Book One (of Four) will span Years 1-3 of Hogwarts.Major divergences begin in Year 2. Eventual romantic pairings may not adhere to canon.Year 1 is Complete.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Any text in bold is directly borrowed from the Harry Potter Books by J.K.Rowling. Clearly, I'm not her.
> 
> The dates have been borrowed from hp-lexicon.org, with certain modifications made if required for consistency. General info has been borrowed from harrypotter.fandom.org. Thanks to all its contributors.

The forest was quiet. Only the sound of rustling leaves was to be heard. Sprawled like a sleeping giant, it had endured for many millennia, bearing silent witness to the events it had been a host of. So it had done in the past. And so it would continue to do in the future.

But this was no ordinary forest. All forests are bastions of nature, championing life in its most primal form. This forest, however, was home to some of the most dangerous magical creatures in the world; creatures that teemed the forest with a combination of life and magic unlike any other. Some born here, some brought in from distant lands, carried in the pockets of travellers.

Today, they too had decided to hold their silence. For magic had demanded it.

Magic. At least that was what it had been called over the years, a testament to its mysterious and unexplored nature. It was present everywhere and affected everything.

Many believed they had discovered it. Some tried to study it, attempted to control it. A few even claimed that they knew everything about it. And time and again, they'd been surprised by its chaotic nature; what they had named impossible feats of magic.

But that all was nought for the forest. For the forest did not bother with believing in magic; it simply breathed it. It owed its very existence to magic, and would one day owe its demise to it as well. It was far too detached to partake in the motions of magic.

After all, today had been a day when one of these remarkable, the so-called impossible had happened here. And the forest had still remained silent.

" _Pop_ "

The soft sound was heard distinctly in the clearing of the forest, lying adjacent to the large and imposing stone castle that stood beside it. In a way, it was the entrance to the forbidden depths of the forest. The sound had marked the arrival of a tall and bearded figure appearing out of thin air. The man took a deep breath, savouring the earthy and musty smell of the forest floor before turning and taking in the sight behind him, his eyes filled with melancholy.

Once a stronghold against those who would persecute magic and witchcraft, its builders founded a school within it for training and preparing the younger generations in the art of magic. Hogwarts, it was called by its founders- Lady Helga Hufflepuff of Wales, Lady Rowena Ravenclaw of Scotland, Lord Salazar Slytherin of Ireland, and Lord Godric Gryffindor of England; and it had housed the future of magical Britain for the past millennium.

‘This is no time to reminisce,’ he thought to himself. ‘Especially when there is work to be done.’

Walking a few steps, he started scanning the forest floor beneath him. It had to be somewhere here. After a while, he doubled back- and that’s when he saw it. Lying in the dirt, just as unassuming as the day he had found it.

He bent and picked it up. For a fleeting moment, he hesitated, turning the stone once in his fingers.

Should he? One last time?

“No,” the man spoke softly.

Its work was done. The stone had served its purpose. Some things were not meant to be disturbed. Not anymore.

Taking a deep breath, he pocketed it. Turning on the spot, he disappeared with another pop.

* * *

The man reappeared, landing softly on the gravel underneath. Beside him, a lone rose plant was swaying slightly in the wind. His throat constricted as he glanced at the burnt down house in front of him. In all honesty, he wasn’t ready to return here; not yet anyway. But it had been the perfect place for the next step of the plan. So, he was here.

Straightening himself he walked inside briskly, only to be stopped by the sheer amount of destruction that surrounded him. A surge of emotions welled within him.       

'No time for that now,' he reminded himself. Time was of the essence to the plan, and he didn't have much of it to spare. In a way, he even needed to be in two places at once. The longer he took, the longer it would take for it all to end. And it had to end today.

In spite of his efforts, an image of the house's previous owners found appeared in his mind. A multitude of memories that he had built here with them flooded in his thoughts, the sorrow trying to surface itself.

“It's alright." The man reassured himself, his face breaking into a sad smile. "Death is but the next great adventure, right?” he said to no one in particular.

His sight lingered on the charred walls and upholstery adorning the room, and on the chandelier covered with soot. The floor was littered with broken glass and burnt splinters, and ivy had crept in through the hole in the roof.

Shaking his head, he continued inside. Taking long, purposeful strides, he walked by the stairs to enter a small room on the left. It looked like the only one to have received any attention over the years. The floor was cleared of all debris, and the sparse furniture inside was in good condition.

Looking around he saw that everything was right where he would need it. His friend had done an excellent job.

Taking the small, round stone out of his pocket, he placed it on the table before him. He then pulled a long, white stick out of the leather brace on his forearm; much longer than could physically fit inside it. Pointing the stick at the stone, he began to do complex motions over it, as if he were unwinding an invisible string. After two minutes of doing this, he exhaled audibly, his arm falling back to his side. Time for the next step.

The man pointed the stick once more at the stone and gave an almost imperceptible flick; the stone rose silently in the air. It was important that he not touch the stone at this time. Concentrating on the levitation, he slowly moved the stone over the next table, where a large round-bottomed crystal flask stood on a brass stand. A flame burned underneath, the lime green liquid inside the flask simmering in its heat.

He hovered the stone over the mouth of the flask. After a moment, which seemed to last forever, he finally let it drop in.

" _Psssttt_ "

The stone fizzled in the liquid, dissolving slowly, making no noticeable change to it. After a moment, the man stepped forward and stopped the burner underneath. Next, he aimed the stick in his hand straight inside the mouth of the flask and made a swift, scooping motion; the liquid inside disappeared without a trace.

"Alright," he remarked aloud. "That's it then."

Although it had all gone according to plan, he couldn’t help finding it a bit anticlimactic. Chuckling, he slipped the stick back onto the brace on his arm. He glanced at all the stuff in the room. He could ask his friend to take it all back.

Or perhaps he would return here himself. It was long overdue anyway. He could decide that later. Now it was time for him to be someplace else. Walking briskly out of the room, he came into the entrance hall.

Looking around, he made the decision there itself; He would return in a week and start the work on his next project here. After all, that was what _they_ would have wanted.

Smiling, he took in a long breath before leaving again in a pop.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to The Three Brothers. This is Book One of four, and will cover Years 1-3 of Hogwarts. The story will stick close to the books in the beginning, with most events identical to canon being summarised. Major deviations in the story begin at the end of Year 1.
> 
> Obviously, the story has a slow buildup, and will be character-centric. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	2. Breakfast of Champions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been reworked and elaborated. The older version was one of the first things I'd ever written, so I had to rewrite and improve it.

29th November 1990

“Get UP!!” the voice bellowed and pounded on the door for half a minute.

The only occupant of the room opened his eyes and silently sat up on his bed. Harry James Potter or _freak_ , as he was commonly addressed to in this household, prepared himself for the day up ahead. The thin, worn out mattress under him had been hardened by years of use. It was far from luxurious, but a much better alternative to his previous accommodations in the cupboard under the stairs. So, no reason to complain, really.

Harry got up and exited the room - the smallest bedroom in 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. He quickly made his way to the bathroom, aiming to finish his morning rituals as quickly as possible. He was given this privilege twice a day for five minutes, and he really didn’t want to waste any of it. The memories of doing that were not pleasant, and Harry didn’t have many pleasant memories to begin with.

He had been living with the Dursleys - his _relatives_ and adopted _family_ since he was a baby. For nine years he had called this miserable place his home, and he couldn’t wait to get out of here one day.

This was actually the first rule that they had drilled into him; that this place was his home, whether he liked it or not. When he had asked why he was given a hard slap on his head and introduced to the second rule of the Dursley household; don’t ask questions.

After finishing up in the bathroom, Harry proceeded to the kitchen to do his first chore of the day. Cooking breakfast for his family. The Dursleys liked to feed themselves as much as they disliked feeding Harry, and Harry was as thin as a stick.

“What took you so long, boy?” Aunt Petunia sneered at Harry from the table, a cup of steaming tea near her pursed lips. “Don’t dilly-dally around now, _get cooking._ ”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” Harry replied mechanically. Moving into the kitchen, he deftly picked up the skillet and set to make six-and-a-half helpings of breakfast- eggs and bacon with toast. Three were for Uncle Vernon, two for his cousin Dudley, one for his Aunt Petunia, and a half helping for himself.

As he worked in silence Petunia gave him a long look, looking for signs of any insincerity. Not finding any, she returned her attention to the folded newspaper in front of her.

As Harry was frying the eggs, his thoughts drifted off to the dream that he had this morning. There had been a flying motorcycle in it. And a large man.

He had had this dream many times over the years, and he liked it better than the other one which he saw often. That one was quite unpleasant, with a woman crying and flashes of green light. His musings were interrupted by Aunt Petunia’s shrill voice

“Watch it freak! Don’t you dare burn the bacon again.”

Muttering a quick apology, Harry concentrated on the breakfast again. Once he was done, he ladled out the eggs and bacon on the plates, making sure the servings were correctly proportioned; his being the only one allowed to be lesser than usual.

He carefully brought the plates to the table and placed them at the appropriate positions on the table.

* * *

“Breakfast is served,” Mark called out. “Come on dad, hurry up or it’s going to get cold.”

“Yeah, give me a second,” the reply came back from the bedroom. Mark drummed his fingers on the table impatiently, his eyes darting to his plate every other moment.

A tall figure of John Smith soon entered the room walking in slow but solid steps. Seeing the look on his son’s face he couldn’t help but comment.

“You know, you can start your breakfast without me right?” John pulled a chair and seated himself gingerly.

“Yeah, right.” Mark rolled his eyes as he started pouring his father his morning coffee.

“I’m serious. Hell, you shouldn’t even be the one doing the cooking in the first place. It’s my job to take care of you.”

Mark shook his head absently as he started pouring himself a cup of coffee. John swatted at his arm and gave him a stern look.

“What?” Mark looked at his father with careless surprise. “I stayed up late, okay? The performance? I was practising.” Seeing the look on John’s face, he grudgingly went for the juice. Remembering John’s earlier remark, he replied.

“And Dad,” Mark looked his father in the eye. “Your job is getting better, you understand?”

“Hmmm.” John nodded through a mouthful of eggs. “You ready for the performance today?” His eyes looked over his plate to study his son.

If an outsider saw them together, it would not be immediately obvious that they were father and son. Mark had inherited his square jaw and strong nose, but that was where the similarities stopped. John was fair, with a head of dirty blond hair, while his son had the bronze complexion and jet-black hair of his late mother. John’s eyes were a deep blue of the sea, while Mark’s were a dark brown of ebony.

“Yeah, I guess,” Mark replied. Buttering the toast in his hand, he continued; his eyes narrowed in concentration. “Just a bit nervous.”

“You’ll do alright”

“I know, Dad,” Mark replied confidently

John smirked slightly at this. Another thing Mark had inherited from his mother.

“Listen, Mark.” John assumed a serious visage; one that he had assumed when he had led his squad as Captain Smith of the 22nd Regiment, Special Air Services. “I don’t think you should come to the hospital this week. Edwin and I can handle-”

“I’m coming, dad.” Mark interrupted, not bothering to look up from his plate. “You handle the chemo better with me there, and I _know_ that for a fact.”

“That’s exactly why I don’t wish you to be there, son. I know how hospitals affect you because of your ability. I don’t want to unnecessarily expose you to it”

“Dad, it’s been two years since I’ve had it under control. I don’t get those episodes anymore. I’ll be fine. So, don’t you dare leave me behind,” he said pointing his fork at John.

John grumbled his assent as he sipped on his coffee. His son had somehow managed to inherit the stubbornness of both his parents.

“I’m done. I better go and get ready.” Mark looked at his father, who replied with a slight nod. Picking up his polished plate, he took it to the sink before heading to his room.

John smiled at the retreating figure of his son; at least he had done something right in managing to teach the kid some discipline. He had often feared that in Sarah’s absence he would fall short in being a good parent.

He still remembered the early days of Mark’s childhood, when he’d struggled with taking care of a baby. Sarah’s mother had been a great help, babysitting Mark when he couldn’t and guiding him through the motions of parenthood. But she too had passed when Mark was four. Somehow through all of it, John was proud of the person his son had grown up to be.

‘But then, even my dad did alright with me.’

John remembered the bear of a man who’d raised him. He would have loved to have a grandson like Mark. John had himself grown without the love of a mother; something that seemed to be the fate of Smith men in general. The thoughts of his Sarah pained him, more so than the physical pain his body had endured for the past six years.

“Bloody Leukaemia,” John grumbled, snorting audibly moments later. That had been a good pun.

Smiling, he picked up the copy of Times on the table, going straight to the international section. The UN had sanctioned intervention in Iraq.

John wondered if his boys were going to be deployed. He’d have to talk to Edwin about it today. Shaking his head, he started going through the other articles on the page, scanning them for any significant information with an eye trained on reading intel reports for a decade.

A few minutes in, Mark reappeared in the kitchen. He was holding a large black case containing John’s old bass, his schoolbag slinging on one strap.

“I’ve got everything dad. I’ll see you after school, alright?” Mark pulled on the strap of his bag to stop it from slipping off his shoulder.

“All the best for today, champ.” John looked over the paper with a small grin on his face. “Sweep them off their feet. Say hi to Ollie for me”

“I will. Bye.”

* * *

“And thus we can see that x+3y would be 90. Now if we had-,” Mr Wiggins continued to drone on to his class who were silently taking down notes. Harry had already zoned out five minutes before, having solved all the questions in his head.

Since he wasn’t supposed to answer questions anyway, he had distracted himself with other thoughts; namely the upcoming Christmas holidays. He wondered if he could convince Aunt Petunia to get him a pair of shoes. His current pair were in tatters, barely held together by tape. They wouldn’t last past a couple more months. There wasn’t a very good chance she might agree, however, since the had already donated Dudley’s old pair at the charity collection in September.

“Mr Potter!” Harry’s thoughts were interrupted as Mr Wiggins called out for him, his face barely holding in the contempt he had for the delinquent he believed Harry to be. “What is the answer to the third question?”

“43,” Harry replied, after remembering that the answer was 42. A small wave of giggles broke out in the class, dying down at the look Mr Wiggins gave everybody. He then looked at Harry.

“Wrong answer. Pay attention boy, or I’m sure you wouldn’t amount to anything in life,” he snarled before continuing on with his lesson.

Harry simply nodded mechanically and zoned out on his teacher again.

-

-

“Seems you can’t even handle simple maths, hun Scarhead?”

Harry closed his eyes, cursing inwardly. Couldn’t he have a peaceful lunch just once?

Of all the names that Dudley and his friends used to bully him, Scarhead was the one that hurt him the most; not that he’d let them know it. It was accurate in its description of the zig-zag shaped scar on his forehead just above his right eye, visible clearly against his pale skin. But that was not the reason he hated the name; at least not the only reason. The scar was an ugly reminder of the car crash that he had survived and his parents had not, leaving him to be raised in the custody of his Aunt Petunia, his only surviving family.

Grudgingly accepting his fate, Harry opened his eyes. In front of him stood Piers Polkiss, backed by members of Dudley’s gang.

Now Piers was a smart kid, unlike the rest of his gang. He was the reason that they all managed to pass in school. In return, he was able to act superior amongst all the bullies in Dudley’s gang, despite his scrawny build and overall bullyable personality. Only Dudley ranked higher than him.

“Perhaps the freak has gone deaf,” remarked Malcolm, another one of Dudley’s gang.

“Let’s smack him till he’s cured then.” Dudley face twisted into a sadistic grin before he lunged at Harry.

Years of reflexes surfaced themselves and Harry ducked in a fluid motion, his feet carrying him away as swiftly as possible. The others chased him through the schoolyard, but Harry managed to evade them successfully. That was until he heard a familiar voice call out to him.

“HARRY POTTER!”

Harry groaned. It was the English teacher, Ms Jenkins.

 “Mr Potter!” she began, “You will not run around the playground like a ruffian, do you understand!”

“But, Ms.Jenk-” Harry tried protesting.

“You may think it entertaining to behave like a delinquent, but it is certainly not up to this school’s standards. Heaven knows how Mrs Dursley-”

“But-”

“No. No more buts, Mr Potter. I do not want any more of those pathetic excuses from you. Especially any trying to blame model students like Polkiss and Dursley. Is that clear?”

Harry suppressed his anger at the unfairness of it all, wondering again why he hadn’t died in the crash that scarred him. _Model students?_

“Am I being clear, Potter?” Ms Jenkins asked again.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Harry replied softly, his head bowed in submission. Ms Jenkins looked down at the untidy mop of black hair and nodded once. Harry’s eyes, hiding behind smallish round spectacles, watched her turned around and leave. Once she was out of sight, he let out a breath of relief’; only to hear Dudley’s voice behind him.

“So, you thought you could run away then?”

Harry groaned inwardly. This was going to be one of those days.

* * *

“Happy Birthday!!” John wrapped his son into a tight bear hug, messing up his hair playfully.

“Thanks, dad,” Mark mumbled, rubbing his eyes with his sleeves.

“Finally, eleven! How does it feel kid?”

“Younger than twelve,” Mark smiled sleepily. John gave him a pointed look.

“Sorry, okay? I feel great, Dad. Just a bit sleepy”

“You know, you must be the only kid your age who isn’t excited about his birthday”

“Am I allowed to open my presents now?”

“You can see them tomorrow, or rather today in the morning.”

“Just as I thought. Nothing to keep me awake anymore,” Mark dangled his words, but John didn’t catch the bait.

“Morning. Along with Edwin’s presents”

“Hmmpf. Goodnight, then.” Mark turned to leave. He reached the passage when John called out

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Mark turned and gave a tired smile.

“I Love you Dad. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, kiddo.”

John watched Mark almost tumble off to bed. Damn, he must have been really tired. Deciding to stay up a little longer, John settled in his armchair.

‘I’m lucky to have him,’ he thought to himself. In all honesty, Mark was one of the few sources of comfort for John, especially since his diagnosis. He didn’t know what he would have done if he was alone.

Eleven years. Time had really flown, hadn’t it? A few more years and Mark would be a full teenager. John had no idea how to deal with a teenager. He’d be winging it. Then, he bet everyone else was winging it too.

Mark was growing quickly now, not unlike John himself. He’d probably end up crossing six feet like his old man.

‘And not just growing vertically,’ John chuckled to himself. In all fairness, it was time for the boy to start paying attention to his health. John had been lenient on him until now; perhaps it was time to change it.

Despite having been raised in the company of ex-soldiers like Edwin and himself, Mark had shown no proclivity towards exercise or sports. The only physical activity he would happily partake in was swimming.

‘Maybe when he starts noticing girls’

An image flooded John’s mind- Mark, all grown up. His physique a copy of John’s own, his face akin to Sarah’s. A perfect mix of both his parents. A sight that would make any parent proud.

Sarah. John’s thoughts turned to his dead wife, and how she had missed seeing her boy grow up.

Before the thoughts turned to melancholy, he took a deep breath and winced at the pain in his lungs. He would never admit it, but having Mark by his side during the recent treatments had really made a difference. But the effect the trips had on Mark…

Being surrounded by sick and suffering patients- that couldn’t be a bearable experience for Mark. 

‘Maybe he really has it under control now,’ John wondered. Mark had not shown any signs of discomfort lately. He had been - indifferent.

An errant thought entered his mind. Could Mark be using his abilities to alleviate his pain? Immediately, John dismissed his thoughts. He had no way of knowing the truth, and he feared he didn’t really want to.

John looked to his left at the small stack of neatly wrapped presents on the couch. They were mostly books; encyclopaedias and textbooks that Mark had lingered near during their last visit to the bookstore. Picking up the topmost from the pile, he ran his hand over the smooth gift paper.

“The Feynman Lectures on Physics,” he muttered allowed, remembering the contents of this one. He had gotten these on the suggestion of one Jeremy Watts - Engineer, and brother to Sergeant Watts from his old regiment.

He had sounded like a bright lad when John had spoken to him on the phone, but had staunchly refused to believe that a ten-year-old had already gone through sixth form science workbooks. Watts had finally relented to John’s requests for suggestions by mentioning this book- ‘Bloody brilliant,’ he had called it.

John put the package back on the pile. His son was probably going to grow up to be a scientist of some sort. The amount of time that Mark spent tinkering around with books and his electronics kit was evidence for it.

‘Got it from his mother. She would have...’

John stubbed the thought before it could grow any further. He turned his thoughts towards his other present for Mark; the special one.

The black and gold custom Stratocaster had not come cheap, but John thought it worth every penny. His son was a damn better guitarist than he ever was, and his old Bass was just putting a limit on Mark’s talent.

‘At least he knows how to have fun. Got that from me,’ John smirked. Looking at the radium hands on the kitchen wall, he saw it was quarter-to-one. He had been up long enough.

Getting up he stretched himself. Giving the pile of presents a last look John headed to get some sleep. On his way, he stopped to look at the sleeping form of his son.

‘Happy Birthday kiddo’

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been reworked and elaborated. The older version was one of the first things I'd ever written, so I had to rewrite and improve it.
> 
> There are a few changes from the books that I'll be making (like Harry living in the bedroom already). When I do, I'll be mentioning them explicitly somewhere. The portrayal of Harry's relationship with the Dursleys is one of the things I don't like in the books, so I'll be changing it a bit.
> 
> Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	3. A Fine Summer Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been reworked and elaborated. The previous one was one of the earliest things I had written and had many mistakes.

22nd July 1991

_“It's the eye of the tiger, it's the dream of the fight_  
_Risin' up to the challenge of our rival_  
 _And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night_  
 _And he's watchin' us all with the eye of the tiger”_

Mark swayed his head to the beats of the song, his headphones sitting atop his head. They were connected to a blue Sony Walkman, currently playing a mixtape titled _“Rock 3”._ Mark’s eyes were glued to the book in front of him; a fascinating chapter on electromagnetic radiation.

The late July sun shined through the window in the bedroom. Mark was seated on the only chair in the room, a blue high back swivel type, his legs resting on the single bed. The wall to his left had a tall bookshelf standing beside his wardrobe, filled with books old and new. The wall behind him was plastered with posters of his favourite rock bands- The Who, Led Zeppelin, Fleetwood Mac, and The Beatles.

At the bottom stood three guitars kept resting on their stands. One, a second-hand sunburst acoustic, the first guitar that Mark had learned to play on. The second was a black Washburn AB10 Acoustic-Electric guitar which once belonged to his father. And lastly, his latest birthday present - a black and gold custom 1987 Fender Stratocaster.

Mark’s attention wavered from the book in front of him, his eyes making their way to his new guitar. A giddy smile graced his face as he admired the work of art. He still couldn’t believe he now had something so beautiful, even though it had now been almost eight months since he’d gotten it.

‘Dad really outdid himself,’ Mark thought to himself. It was difficult keeping something a secret from him due to his ability, and he really marvelled at the way his Dad managed to do just that. He’d known his Dad had gotten him the books, but not about the guitar.

He wondered if there was another decent drummer at school. Now that Ollie had moved out of the city, he had no friends left to jam with. Of course, there was Steve, but he was a right git. Even though Mark had been the better guitarist of the two, he had refused to swap for Mark’s Bass while they were preparing for the performance.

Well, now Mark had a guitar too. So, Steve had been a bit more bearable last term, now that he no longer felt possessive of his own guitar. Mark knew this because he had _gleaned_ it using his ability.

His ability. He still remembered when it had first surfaced itself. As a child, odd things had often occurred around him. But his ability; that had happened when he was eight.

Realising that his thoughts had drifted away from the book he had been reading, Mark closed his eyes and took a deep breath, focusing on the sensation of his chest heaving. It was Edwin who had taught him this meditation technique in order to help him control his ability, but Mark found it just as useful to apply whenever he lost focus.

Edwin. That old man had no idea what he was getting into when he agreed to help Mark. An eight-year-old who could suddenly hear the thoughts of everyone around him? Certainly not covered in the SAS situation control manual. But Edwin had helped, for he had seen the pain in Mark’s eyes, plagued by the silent cries of the sick that no child should witness, let alone feel.

So he had helped. In six months, Mark had gained a semblance of control. Another six, and he could now close off ay errant thoughts around him. That was two years ago.  

Mark had wondered if his ability was some form of superpower. Maybe he was some form of mutant, just like Professor Xavier from the X-Men comics. He’d borrowed a few of them from Steve’s collection. Well, he wasn’t exactly like the professor; he’d never managed to actively control or implant a suggestion into another’s mind. At least not yet.

Perhaps he was more like Jean Grey. She had telekinetic powers, in addition to her telepathy. When Mark had read about it, he’d tried to do that himself. He wasn’t sure about the results. The book he’d tried to levitate did float a quarter inch off the table, but only for a few seconds. At least the coin had floated for a couple of minutes; he’d even managed to spin it in mid-air.

The only one he had told about this was his dad. In spite of the fact that his dad had never been anything but positive towards him, Mark always felt nervousness when something like this happened. He knew it was stupid, but that was the truth. Having an insight into the minds of other people had taught Mark a valuable lesson - People hate what they fear, and they fear what they cannot understand.

On learning that his son could now perform telekinesis, albeit, in a limited capacity, John Smith had just smiled softly before wrapping his son in a tight hug. No words were spoken, for none were necessary.

As Mark breathed in and out, he finally felt the fleeting emptiness in his mind. Drawing himself back from the depths of his own self he opened his eyes, ready and focused once more. He resumed his reading of the passage on polarisation and was soon engrossed in it. A few minutes later, the doorbell rang.

“Don’t get up. I’ll get this,” John’s voice came in through the living room. Mark smiled. His dad was much better this month. The recent treatments had been showing positive results. He turned his attention back on the vector algebra of polarisation, the page illuminated by the bright summer sun.

* * *

The bright summer sun shined on Harry as he pulled a rather stubborn weed from the garden bed. He hummed a tune in his head as he worked in the quiet of the late summer morning, sweat dripping down his forehead. As he lost himself in the monotony of the work, he wondered about his most recent punishment. Or rather the cause of it.

It had been Dudley’s birthday, and to the Dursley’s luck, there was no one to look after Harry for the day. Mrs Figg, a batty old neighbour who usually took him had broken her leg. Harry had offered to stay alone, but the Uncle Vernon wouldn’t have it; he didn’t want to come and “find the house burnt down”.

So, after long deliberation, Harry ended up accompanying them to the zoo. Harry had been secretly happy about this; he never got to go anywhere special, not even on his birthday.

The day had gone great. The exhibits were interesting, and Harry had even got an ice-cream - a cheap ice lolly. Granted, it was because Dudley had dropped his sundae and when Uncle Vernon went to get another, the ice-cream man had given him a funny look for not buying anything for Harry.

The day did not stay great, however. It all happened when they entered the reptile house and encountered the boa constrictor. Somehow Harry had managed to talk to it, and it had responded. When Dudley saw this, he shoved Harry. What happened next was unclear, but the glass holding the Boa Constrictor in vanished and the snake managed to escape. Harry could’ve sworn he heard it hiss “ _Thankss amigo_ ” as it slithered past.

The moment they had returned home, Harry had been locked in his room, his limited meals being delivered through the cat flap in the door. By the time he was let out again, the summer holidays had begun.

‘Well it wasn’t its fault,’ Harry said to himself, thoughts of the boa-constrictor entering his mind. ’It just wanted to be free. Just like me.’

He often wondered when he would be free of the life he was living. Maybe once he was eighteen, he could get out of here. There were jobs in construction and heavy labour in London. Perhaps he could even get a job as a clerk in some office; even though he was forced to downplay his competence, his marks weren’t that bad.

“BOY! You better not be messing up my yard!”

Harry was jerked back from his thoughts by the loud voice of Uncle Vernon coming from inside the house. Harry hated Sundays, even when it was school time. There were double the chores, nowhere else he was supposed to be, and Uncle Vernon would be home eager to torment him.

“Just eight more years of this,” Harry grumbled to himself, before turning his attention back to the weeds before him. After ten years of living with the Dursleys, Harry didn’t expect any sort of affection from them. He had given hope on that long ago.

He chuckled; if one day they did decide to be nice to him Harry would probably have a heart attack from the shock. By now it was much more natural for them to be mean to him. After all what reason did they have to love him?

Harry had often thought of his parents and wondered if they were hiding somewhere instead of being dead. Maybe they were secret agents, like the ones on the movies on the telly, out there saving the world. Or maybe they were just like his aunt claimed them to be; deadbeat good-for-nothings who got killed in an accident while driving drunk.

As he worked, a tall shadow appeared and covered the now high sun.

“How far along are you?”

Harry turned to look at his Aunt. The sun in his eyes forced him to squint.

“Just about halfway done. I’ll let you know when I’m finished, Aunt Petunia,” Harry replied with a forced, but polite obedience.

She looked shiftily at him, then glanced around the yard as if expecting something to appear.

“Don’t try to be clever, _freak_. Just get the work done,” she said before turning back and going into the house.

‘That’s odd,’ Harry pondered. ‘She’s been doing that ever since I’ve been let out of my room.’

It had now been a week since his month-long punishment had ended. Still, it was much better than the one he had gotten for changing the colour of his teacher’s hair to blue in primary school _._ That had also earned him a month, but that had been in the cupboard, with almost no food. At least this time he was in his room.

Even though he had lived with the Dursley’s for a decade, the house showed no signs of anybody beside Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley living there. There were zero photos of Harry, nor were there any memorabilia. The one small award he had won in school two years ago had been binned the moment he had gotten home.

Before he had been given the room, it had been Dudley’s second bedroom. A room that he used to store the toys he had broken or got bored with. Harry still remembered the tantrum that Dudley had thrown when the room was taken from him. Uncle Vernon had been forced to raise his voice at his son for the first time, all because Aunt Petunia had heard certain rumours in the neighbourhood.

The news was going around that child protection services were conducting raids in Surrey, and the Dursleys were not stupid enough to want a child being found sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs. Of course, Harry wasn’t given this reason. He was told that as he was now growing too big for the cupboard, they had decided to reward him with the room to sleep in.

His room. The only thing that could be truly called his were the few school things he had; everything else was a hand-me-down that once belonged to Dudley. If Dudley had been older than him, Harry was sure he would have had to do with his school things too

‘At least they would have been unused,’ he joked to himself.

Other than the sparse mattress and the broke toys that were piled in the corner, Harry’s room was bare. No paint, no decorations. The Dursleys refused to spend anything on Harry.

His door was a different story. There were three bolts on it, all on the outside. A cat flap was installed at the bottom, even though there was no cat in the house. It was put there specifically for him when his punishments demanded him being locked inside.

A commotion down the street drew Harry’s attention. He peered out of the yard to look down the street.

‘Shit.’ It was Dudley and his gang coming up, obviously done with whatever thuggish activities they spent their summer doing. When they would reach here, they would probably be wanting to play one of their favourite games - Harry Hunting.

It was funny in a way. On seeing Harry, dressed in baggy old clothes and broken glasses, everyone thought him to be the troublemaker, when it was Dudley who was the actual troublemaker and bully in the neighbourhood.

Harry looked at the garden bed in front of him. The weeding was almost finished. He started working faster, hoping to finish before Dudley reached here. At least then he would have the chance to make his escape.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it is evident, there are a few things that differ from canon; specifically Harry's life at Privet Drive. These have been done to better flesh out the character I have in mind for Harry, and will be explicitly mentioned.
> 
> This chapter, along with the previous one, set up the contrast between Harry and Mark. The plot now takes off in the next chapter.
> 
> Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	4. Albus Dumbledore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been reworked and elaborated. There are no changes in the plot content, just an improvement in wordflow and dialogue.

22nd July 1991

"Mr Smith, I presume? I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, the deputy headmistress at Hogwarts School. I am here to talk to you about your son. May I come in?"

John surveyed the tall middle-aged woman in front of him. She was dressed smartly, although her fashion style was out of date by around thirty years. A thin face and sharp nose, a set of square spectacles were resting on the bridge, and a set of thin lips gave her an appearance of someone not to cross.

"Yes, please come in," John answered, his trained eye completing it assessment - _Not a threat_. He swept his hand towards the living room, gesturing his welcome. The woman nodded and followed him in.

As she walked in, John wondered why this lady was here. They certainly hadn't applied to any school. Once she seated herself on the couch, he voiced his question.

"You say you're from a school? Are you here to offer Mark a position there?" John asked before remembering, "Oh, how rude of me. Would you like some tea or coffee?"

"No, thank you," came the polite reply, followed by a muttered, "Perhaps that would be a good demonstration."

John nodded and sat himself on the armchair. This lady, professor, he reminded himself, was one of the most intriguing figures he had ever met. And as a former SAS captain, that list was not easy for someone to get on to.

Now that he observed closely, she was clearly older than sixty, but her movements held the spryness of someone much younger. Although she was not a threat, everything about her was contradictory.

Her mannerisms were that of a teacher, but behind them were reflexes of a fighter. Her eyes held the experience of an academic, yet they had scanned the room for danger the moment she entered through the door. She had definitely seen combat action but was not in that role today. After all, female soldiers weren't unfamiliar to him; he had seen his fair share.

The way she carried herself, John would've guessed that she was armed with a weapon if he hadn't known better. Perhaps it was an old instinct she hadn't gotten rid of completely.

"Is your son at home today, Mr Smith?" asked the lady in front of him, bringing John's attention back into focus. Before he could answer, however, a voice carried in through the hallway.

"I am"

John turned to look at his Mark, who gave him a grin as he walked in towards him.

"Ah, young Mr Smith. As I mentioned to your father, I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts school in Scotland." Once both father and son had her full attention, she continued,

"Before I proceed any further, I must ask a few questions if you don't mind." She removed a small piece of paper from the small bag she was carrying. It was yellowed and thick, and John would've guessed it to be some sort of parchment.

After seeing affirming nods, she proceeded, "Now, you are Mark John Smith, born Thirtieth of November Nineteen Seventy-Nine, correct?"

"Yes," Mark replied. The professor tucked the parchment back in and looked at them again.

"Now Mr Smith," she said, her voice delicate, "has Mark ever done something odd, something unusual? Something you couldn't explain, perhaps?" Her eyes were watching the two of them for any hint of reaction. She must have found some, for her face assumed a brief sense of triumph.

John wondered just what exactly was going on. Who was this lady? He glanced sideways and saw Mark's eyes peering at her. Moments later, however, his son smiled.

Okay. It can't be that bad then. Still, John needed answers. Deciding not to let her off so easily, he gave his reply.

"Yes." The professor smiled and gave him a slight nod.

"Mr Smith, this might be a little difficult to believe at first, but your son Mark is what we call a _Wizard_." She took a brief pause, waiting for the words to sink in. She must have been expecting an angry retort but was pleased when none came.

"You're not joking," John observed.

"No Mr Smith, I am not. Your son is a wizard, just as I am a Witch. I am the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and I am here to offer Mark a place at our school."

John observed the professor silently, trying to see any sign of dishonesty. Finding none, he surreptitiously glanced at Mark. Seeing that his son wasn’t giving him any signal to the contrary, John continued the conversation.

“Can you show us some proof of this? This **—** uh **—** witchcraft?”

“Magic. That’s what we call it,” she clarified. “Certainly. Since earlier we discussed having tea, let me conjure a pot of tea right now.”

She drew a long wooden stick from her dress, a few inches smaller than a foot. Holding it in her hand she began her explanation.

"This here is a wand. Witches and wizards use wands in order to channel their magic," She spoke as she simultaneously performed a complicated wave of her wand and pointed it at the table in front of her. John watched dumbstruck as a beautiful porcelain teapot and three matching cups and saucers appeared out of thin air. The pot was likely full of tea, for he could make out wisps of steam escaping through the spout.

While Mark was watching all this with a scientific fascination, John's earlier instincts were confirmed; this wand had been the dangerous weapon he thought she had been carrying.

The professor then gave her wand a small flick and the cups began filling themselves before floating towards John and Mark, who was slack-jawed at the incredible sight.

"The existence of magic has been kept a secret from non-magical people by the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, in effect since 1692." She took a sip from her cup before continuing in a manner that indicated that she had given this speech many times before.

"Hogwarts is the oldest magical school in Europe and it has trained young wizards and witches for more than a millennium. I myself am the Professor of Transfiguration, and Mark would be studying in the company and under the tutelage of some of the finest minds of Magical Britain."

She took another sip from her cup, then set it down on the table.

Before I proceed further, here is the Hogwarts acceptance letter that I'm here to deliver," she said, fishing out a yellowed envelope made out of thick parchment and handing it over to Mark.

* * *

 _Mr_ _M. Smith,_

_Second Bedroom,_

_24, Beauchamp Road,_

_Battersea, London_

Mark studied the emerald green lettering on the thick envelope, all the while digesting everything that he had learnt. He could make out his father asking some questions about the curriculum, fees, and such; His dad was nervous, and he could sense his apparent relief at the explanations provided by the elderly witch about Mark's abilities. The answers that professor McGonagall provided his father were of little interest to him since he had already _gleaned_ them out of her head.

That's not to say he'd invaded her privacy; on the contrary, he had just plucked out the information she had held in front of her mind as she must have prepared to explain to his Dad and him. He used the same technique in class at school and managed to learn much quicker than his peers.

The mind worked in a vastly different manner than most people thought. Mark had gone through enough books on brains and neuroscience, and even though he didn't understand them fully, he got the gist that no-one really understood the mind either.

Mark broke the red seal on the envelope and drew out the heavy parchment inside. As his fingers brushed the heavy parchment, his thoughts drifted to his father.

He couldn't leave him here, could he? What about the treatments? Not that his dad couldn't take care of himself. And Edwin would be there to help. But could he just leave?

The guilt slowly began to gnaw at him, and he glanced at the seated figure of his father. He hadn't seen his father this enthusiastic about something for a long time. His father turned to look at him that very moment, and he must have sensed Mark's apprehension.

"I'll be fine, champ," he reassured, giving Mark a definite nod. Mark smiled in reply, then turned his attention to the now unfolded letter in his hand.

**HOGWARTS SCHOOL**

**_of_ ** **WITCHCRAFT** **_and_ ** **WIZARDRY**

 **Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE**  
( **_Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,  
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards_ ** **)**

**Dear Mr. Smith,**

**We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.**

**Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.**

**Yours sincerely,**

**Minerva McGonagall,**

**Deputy Headmistress**

'Albus Dumbledore'. Mark recalled the image of the bearded man he had seen in the professor's mind. His thought tapered off as he turned to the second piece of parchment, a list of supplies he was expected to bring.

**HOGWARTS SCHOOL**

**_of_ ** **WITCHCRAFT** **_and_ ** **WIZARDRY**

**UNIFORM**

**First-year students will require:**

**1\. Three sets of plain work robes (black)**

**2\. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear**

**3\. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)**

**4\. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)**

**Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags**

**COURSE BOOKS**

**All students should have a copy of each of the following:**

**_The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_ ** **by Miranda Goshawk**

 **_A History of Magic_ ** **by Bathilda Bagshot**

 **_Magical Theory_ ** **by Adalbert Waffling**

 **_A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration_ ** **by Emeric Switch**

 **_One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ ** **by Phyllida Spore**

 **_Magical Drafts and Potions_ ** **by Arsenius Jigger**

 **_Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ ** **by Newt Scamander**

 **_The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ ** **by Quentin Trimble**

REQUIRED EQUIPMENT

Set of Basic Potions Ingredients, Level 1

Parchment (At least 12 rolls)

Ink and Quills (Self-writing/Quick Quotes Quill NOT permitted)

**OTHER EQUIPMENT THAT ALL STUDENTS MUST OWN**

**1 wand**

**1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)**

**1 set glass or crystal phials**

**1 telescope**

**1 set brass scales**

**Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad**

**PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS**

It was possibly the most bizarre list of things Mark had ever thought he would read. Now finished with them, Mark passed both the pieces of parchments to his dad. He turned to Professor McGonagall.

"Where will we find this stuff, Ma'am?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

"Here in London, Mr Smith. In Diagon Alley"

"London?" John looked up in surprise from the parchment in his hand. "You're saying there's a wizarding market here in London?" he asked in amazement.

John was already sold on the idea of his son being a wizard, given that he had seen proof enough of magic. He had not detected any dishonesty in the Professor over the course of their conversation, and most likely neither had Mark.

John was no fool; he knew Mark must have read the professor's mind the minute he entered the room, and frankly, he did not mind his son's vigilance.

"Indeed Mr Smith," the Professor answered with a kind smile. "If I have your agreement, I would like to escort you to Diagon Alley on your first trip as a guide and to assist in the shopping of the school supplies."

"Splendid," John answered immediately, squashing any errant objections that Mark may have had on the grounds of his Illness. He was feeling great. After all, his son was a _Wizard._

* * *

"So Albus, how have you been?"

The man in question was seated on the plush Indian style diwan, adorning the luxurious sitting room of his host, sipping on a cup of earl grey. Lifting his twinkling blue eyes, he answered with a smile.

"As good as can be expected, my friend. Overseeing Hogwarts is one of the few responsibilities I enjoy shouldering." Pausing to take a sip, he continued, "Cornelius insists on owling me asking for opinions on outlandish proposals. I do manage to persuade him to divert the funds to something useful, but he seems stuck on reviving the Triwizard Championship."

He would not have shared such potentially sensitive information with anyone, but his host was no ordinary wizard. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore had known him for almost a century now, which was but a fraction of the six-hundred-sixty-plus years that Nicolas Flamel had been alive. And knowing Nicolas, he would have to offer juicy information to make him open up. Even though it had been Nicolas who had requested this meeting.

"Has he gone mad?" Nicolas scoffed. "The Triwizard Championship was discontinued for good reasons. Why, by the last one it had turned into a poor effort at pumping national pride. I should know. I was there," he added with an air of authority

"I think Cornelius wishes it to go down as one of the few accomplishments under his term as the Minister of Magic," Dumbledore replied, absently stroking his beard.

"Then he's just a selfish fool, who doesn't care for the students who would be participating," cried Nicolas. His exclamation brought his wife into the room from the adjoining library.

"Come on dear, you're exaggerating it a bit too much," she remarked, taking a seat beside him. "I'm sure Albus would not let the children come to harm."

Albus couldn't help but beam under her praise, just like he had all those years ago. Madam Perenelle words had always held a special place for him.

"Yes indeed, Perenelle. I will try my best. The safety of the students has always been the most important thing," he took a sip of his tea, "Although I do hope that the plan falls through," he added, more to himself.

Now finished, Albus set the cup on the table in front of him and looked at the couple in front of him. To an outsider, it would seem as if he were the senior person here, with his almost white hair and beard. With a slight peppering of grey in their hair, both Nicolas and Perenelle hadn't seemed to have aged a day since the first time he had met them when he was just a boy.

Although he knew the secret of their excellent health, he chose not to comment on it. It had long been a point of debate and disagreement between them. Albus decided to get straight to the pertinent question now that the pleasantries were concluded.

"So Nicolas, Perenelle," he looked at them both, "what is the reason that you called for this meeting? What can I help you with?"

Nicolas seemed hesitant to begin, and Albus deduced that this must have been his wife's idea. He turned and looked at Perenelle, who was sitting upright and had a serious expression on her usually impassive face.

"Well Albus, it is quite simple. News has reached our ears that dark forces are after the Stone." She took a pause before continuing, "Not your ordinary thief, mind you. They have skill, whoever they are."

Albus was fully attentive now. The Stone was one of the most powerful artefacts in existence. Its safety was paramount. But why were they telling him?

"How can I help?" he asked. The Flamels had been close friends of his for many years, but they rarely made any requests of him. So, he was ready to help when they did.

"Well, we want you to protect the Stone at Hogwarts." Her tone was not that of a request but that of demand.

Albus was taken aback. Nicolas and Perenelle had never let anybody even handle the Stone without their supervision. Even during the height of the last war, they had always taken the responsibility of protecting the stone onto themselves. What had changed? Taking a stab in the dark, Albus made a guess.

"You're growing weak."

Nicolas widened his eyes, clearly disturbed at the implication. Perenelle's face, however, showed no emotion as she confirmed Albus's statement with a dispassionate nod.

"Nicolas has already moved the stone to a safe location," she took a pause, squeezing her husbands' hand beside her. "But I fear that it's not safe enough"

"Perhaps you should consider…"

" _No,_ " came the immediate response, this time from Nicolas. "It is out of the question. We are _not_ destroying the stone. And bear in mind Albus, _you will not_ either," he added with a hint of warning.

They had always reached the same impasse every time the topic of the Stone was brought up.

"Our need for the Elixir is not our primary motivation Albus," Perenelle interrupted, partly to quell the growing tension. "There are still many unfinished projects we are working on. You of all people should understand the importance of magical research."

Albus decided not to stoke the argument any further, and Perenelle continued.

"And as far as the Stone is concerned, it's not just protection we are after." She looked Albus directly in the eyes. "We want you to capture the one seeking it."

"But-"

"You know the castle of Hogwarts is best suited for this purpose. You have complete control over those who enter its grounds." Taking another pause, she added, "And as I said earlier, I have complete faith in your ability to ensure the students don't come to harm."

Albus smiled despite himself. Perenelle knew exactly what to say. After a rather long pause, he gave a slight nod.

"Alright. I may have a few ideas on how to do this." He took a pause. "But it will take time. Months, perhaps."

"You won't have that much. No more than a week at best," Perenelle replied. Albus gave a tired sigh at this and nodded again.

"Where is it now?" he asked, already having a guess to the answer.

"In a high-security vault at the London Gringotts."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been reworked and elaborated. There are no changes in the plot content, just an improvement in wordflow and dialogue.
> 
> Dumbledore will be another POV character in the story, with occasional appearances that give a glimpse into his perspective and the constraints he was operating under. I am not a Dumbledore basher; rather he's my favourite character in the series.
> 
> Since the canon books are primarily Harry's perspective, his parts are relatively shorter and passive as long as the story follows canon. Once the major divergence starts (middle of Year 2), his POV will become active.
> 
> Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	5. The Wandmaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been reworked and elaborated. There were POV inconsistencies, and thus the rework is extensive.

22nd July 1991

“The Goblins are a prideful race, Mr Smith,” Professor McGonagall informed her quarry as they exited Flourish and Botts, their book shopping now done. “Despite a bloody history between the two races that is marred by the many wars and rebellions that took place, wizards and goblins now enjoy the longest period of peace and cooperation recorded.”

She turned to look at her new student, her legs still striding towards their destination.

“You will learn all about it in your History of Magic Classes, of course. Professor Binns is one of the most experienced teachers at Hogwarts,” she added. Mark nodded as he followed her, trying to get as much information as he could from both her words and her thoughts. She didn’t seem as confident about Professor Binns as she claimed to be, for example.

Mark’s dad followed the two of them, lagging behind a few steps as his head swivelled around to examine the various eccentricities of Diagon Alley. Gold cauldrons, silver telescopes, flying broomsticks, people dressed in bizarre robes; the wizarding world was even more colourful than they had imagined. Their next stop was to purchase a wand for Mark.

They had finished all the other stops on their list, and Mark had never had a better day before. Okay, maybe when he got his guitar. Still, it was a great day so far. Once they got in the alley through the portal in the Leaky Cauldron, their first stop had been the goblin bank Gringotts. After exchanging the pounds for galleons, they began the shopping. School robes at Madam Malkins, brass instruments from Wiseacres, nasty ingredients from the Slug and Jiggers apothecary; Mark’s school term was going to be really interesting.

During all this, both Mark and his father had kept up their steady barrage of questions to the professor. Mark could make out that under her professional exterior, she was actually pleased with the questions that the two of them had.

Mark’s thoughts were interrupted as Professor McGonagall slowed down. They had reached their destination

“Since 382 B.C.?” he heard his dad ask in an incredulous tone. Ollivander’s Wands was apparently an old establishment.

The moment they opened the door, a small bell jingled somewhere inside the shop. It was a bit dusty everywhere, and the smell of old musty paper and curing wood wafted through the shop. Mark looked around, examining the tall shelves filled with boxes that seemed to dominate the interior, reminding him of an old library. His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of an old man with pale eyes and wispy white hair.

“Good afternoon,” a voice spoke, an undercurrent of wisdom ringing through the room.

Mark turned and saw an old man standing in front of him. He had pale eyes and his hair white and wispy. His

“Good afternoon, Mr Ollivander,” Professor McGonagall spoke, her tone curter than usual. Ollivander looked straight at her, and a twinkle emerged in his old eyes.

“Ah, Minerva McGonagall. Fir, nine-and-a-half-inches, very stiff. Excellent for transfiguration, if I recall.”

“Indeed,” the professor replied after a tired sigh.

“And who is this?”

“Mark Smith, sir,” he replied, a tad too excited. Something about all this felt right.

“Well, Mr Smith, let’s find you a wand shall we. Now, which is your wand arm?”

“Both, I guess,” Mark answered noncommittally. He was mostly ambidextrous. “Does it matter?”

“Yes, indeed it does. You see, Mr Smith, it is the wand that chooses the wizard. And a wand behaves differently in different hands.” Ollivander looked at him, excitement evident on his face. “For you, that means we will have to try twice the number of wands.”

A measuring tape that had been resting on Ollivander’s shoulders rolled out and began taking various measurements, from Mark’s shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and then round Mark’s head.

“Each Ollivander Wand is unique to the wizard, and you will never get the same results with another wizard’s wand. As each wizard is unique, so are the magical creatures that give their cores to the wands.” The voice came in from deep inside the shop, where Ollivander had disappeared off to while his seemingly sentient tape kept his audience occupied.

“We here at Ollivander’s use the heartstrings of Dragons, Unicorn tail hair, and sometimes the feathers of Phoenixes,” he finished as he returned with a dull looking box. Opening it he offered the wand inside to Mark.

“Ebony and unicorn hair, eight-and-a-half inches. Go on try it”.

Mark put his hand in the box and picked up the wand inside. Seeing an encouraging nod on Ollivander’s face, he gave it a wave. Weak sparks emerged from it, and he saw surprise etch itself on the face of Professor McGonagall.

“Interesting. Very Interesting,” said the old wandmaker, drawing out the words as he observed the wand in Mark’s hand. Abruptly, he straightened himself and plucked the wand from the hand of a now confused Mark.

“Do you have any control over your wandless magic, Mr Smith?”

Mark’s confusion deepened. Wandless magic?

“I’m not sure. I mean, I can float a coin in my hand,” he answered weakly, not wanting to get into his mind reading abilities, at all. From what he had seen in Professor McGonagall’s mind, it was an uncommon ability even amongst magical folk. His dad obviously picked up on it, for he just kept silent.

“You can _float_ a coin in your hand? _Purposefully_?” Professor McGonagall was staring at him like he had grown another head. Mark nodded weakly.

Okay then. Wandless magic was also uncommon in wizards. Noted for further reference.

Ollivander seemed to have picked up on his discomfort, and he gave Mark a warm smile as he returned with a small pile of boxes.

“Do not worry, my boy. It just makes you a trickier customer than usual.”

After going through two more piles of boxes with similar results, Ollivander went in and returned with a single box.

“I wonder now. Here try this. Holly and phoenix feather, eleven-and-a-half inches.”

Mark reached in to pick up the wand, a sensation of unease slowly rising within him. His fingers curled against the handle, and an unwelcome warmth flowed through his hand. He kept it back immediately, his action almost involuntary.

“Curious. Very, very curious.” Ollivander looked at Mark, trying to figure something out. His eyes scanned the young wizard in front of him, coming to linger momentarily over the silver locket that rested around his neck. The old man’s face broke out in a kind smile.

“I think I now have an idea as to which wand will be yours, _Mr Smith_.”

* * *

23rd July 1991

“So Albus, what is this about?” asked Minerva tiredly, her Scottish brogue seeping in through her words. “I still have two more muggle-born students to meet,” she informed her boss, rising him from some deep thoughts.

Albus watched his long-time friend and protégé slumped in on the armchair in his office. This time of the year was especially exhausting for her.

“Oh! Wonderful. How were the students that you did meet? You know I love hearing about your interactions with the new muggle-borns, Minerva.” His curiosity was genuine; something about people experiencing magic for the first time brought him happiness. Minerva smiled and took in an audible breath before replying.

“Well, Ms Granger is an enthusiastic young witch. She was most excited to join the magical world and know all about the subjects that would be taught here. Kept asking questions about everything. Reminded me a little of the Lily Evans I had met all those years ago,” she said fondly.

“Not completely, mind you. Ms Granger is far more competitive and academically inclined. Her parents indicated that she’s a studious pupil that strives hard to get the best grades at everything. Doesn’t have many friends at her primary school.” Minerva took a pause before continuing, more to herself. “I do hope she manages to do that here, in the company of other students like her. Her parents were worried about that.”

“A possible Ravenclaw?” Albus offered as he popped a lemon drop in his mouth. They often had friendly bets amongst themselves about where some students might get sorted.

“Maybe.” Minerva shrugged. She looked at Albus, who somehow managed to look sophisticated while sucking on a piece of candy.

“Well, it seems Ms Granger would be a good addition to whichever house she’s sorted into.”

Minerva nodded half-heartedly to that before a twinkle emerged in her eyes.

“Mr Smith, on the other hand, was quite an interesting study,” she said as if dangling a juicy bait. Albus caught on to it immediately.

“Do tell,” he said, taking the bait. Minerva grinned, and swiftly leaned forwards towards him with catlike grace.

“Would you believe me if I said that he can do a controlled levitation charm,” she took a dramatic pause, “ _wandlessly_?”

Albus stared at her, his mouth slightly hanging open. He must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Really?” he asked, after taking a moment to compose himself. Minerva’s grin only widened.

“Indeed. He demonstrated it to me with a galleon, after we left Ollivander’s. He was hesitant at first; my initial shock didn’t help the matter much. It took some reassurance from my side before he could proceed,” she recalled.

“But once he did, it was much more impressive than I had imagined. He even spun the coin mid-air!”

“Interesting,” Albus muttered to himself. “What more did you observe? Is he studious?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Minerva drew-out her reply. “From what his father told me he voraciously pursues anything that interests him, but only makes passing efforts in the rest of the subjects.”

“Both father and son are quite intelligent actually. The questions that they had for me were refreshingly complex and challenging to answer.” After a moment she added in an amused tone, “Evidently, Mr Smith is fond of muggle rock music. He asked me if he could bring his guitar to Hogwarts in order to practice.”

Albus chuckled at this, a sense of relief flowing through him. Thankfully Mr Smith was well loved in his home. Looking at his deputy, he decided to go for one of his favourite sayings

“You know what I think of it, Minerva. Music a magic-”

“-a magic beyond all we do here,” she chimed in.

A nagging doubt entered Albus’s mind. He considered having it clarified.

 “Just out of curiosity, what kind of wand chose Mr Smith?” Albus asked almost hesitantly. _Please don’t say holly, please don’t say holly._

“Applewood and phoenix feather,” came the tired reply. “Apparently it was the oldest wand in the shop, even older than Ollivander himself. It took us over an hour to find it,” Minerva explained.

Albus felt his mouth curl into a smile as his worry disappeared. He decided it was time to move on to the real purpose of this meeting.

“Mr Smith does seem to be an interesting young wizard indeed,” he said in an offhanded tone, drawing Minerva’s attention. “I need your help with something, Minerva.” Peering down his half-moon spectacles he added in a grave voice, “Something extremely sensitive.”

Minerva straightened herself, her attention fixed on her mentor. Albus continued,

“We need to protect a certain artefact inside the castle, and I need you to devise protections for it.” He let the information set in. “Dark forces are likely to be involved in its search. I have already recruited Severus for this. I will also ask Filius and Pomona, but only he and you are to know the real objective; We mean to trap the would-be thief red-handed.”

“And what is this artefact?” she asked. His response was almost hesitant.

“The Philosopher’s Stone”

* * *

25th July 1991

“-we can see that by only depicting a single open curtain, the author seems to portray loneliness in-”

Mark had already zoned out, his hand propping the weight of his head on the desk. Of all the subjects, he hated studying languages the most. And English was the worst.

‘No, the author just probably forgot to mention the other curtain,’ Mark mocked in his mind. ‘Or perhaps he wanted to vex literature students’ centuries after his death.’

His mind wandered to the subjects he’d be studying at Hogwarts. He had already finished the book on Magical theory by that ‘Waffing’ guy. It had quite a lot of information, but most of it was just anecdotal and empirical. He hoped to buy some more comprehensive books on the subject when he went back to Diagon Alley on Sunday. He also hoped to browse all the other shops more thoroughly. There were probably interesting things to find in Knockturn Alley, but Professor McGonagall had specifically forbidden him from going there, and the place was probably not that welcoming to an eleven-year-old like him.

Upon his dad’s insistence, they had purchased a few extra items and even an upgraded trunk. It was expensive, but Mark had agreed after listening to his dad’s reasoning that it was a one-time purchase that should last him for several years. It had three compartments that somehow occupied the same physical space. As if by magic.

Growing up with his dad, money had never been an issue for them. His father’s savings and pension were respectable and his mother’s family had been rich, so all of the wealth was to be passed on to him.

Mark’s hand slipped underneath his shirt and subconsciously searched around. The worn-out edges of the silver locket brushed his fingers, and he ran his thumb over the intricate pattern. It was one of the few mementoes that he had of his mother. It had been a family heirloom, passed on from his maternal-grandfather to his only daughter, and now to her son.

His mother. Sarah Smith had been a kind and loving woman. At least that was what everyone always said.

Mark hated the fact that he could barely remember. Even her face was something he had only visualised through photos and her voice from the memories that he gleaned from his dad. Nothing else to go on.

She had died barely a month after he had been born, on the very night of that Christmas. As he grew up, he never really noticed her absence; after all his dad took care of him pretty well. There had never been a moment where he had actually wondered where his mother was.

By the time he grew older, he knew enough to not wonder anymore. There was no sense of emptiness or of missing out on anything. Just an academic curiosity that needed fulfilment.

So, he had gone to Edwin. He didn’t want to disturb his dad with sensitive questions about his dead wife, forcing him to relive old memories. Not when he had just been diagnosed with leukaemia.

Edwin had understood and done his best. He told stories of how his parents met, how a young and sophisticated investment analyst fell in love with a rough and handsome soldier, and how they got married. How his mother had a sharp wit and a lovable personality, and how she wanted to raise a family with the man she loved. What exactly Mark had missed out on.

And now, there was a very good chance that his dad might leave him in a few years.

Mark wasn’t naïve; he was well acquainted with death. His dad had gone over everything with him, everything he would need to do after. They had even dubbed it their ‘Protocol Valkyrie,’ jokingly referring to the real operation Valkyrie that took place during the second world war.

But all the humour in the world couldn’t mask the cold hard truth behind it. Mark wished it would take as long as possible to become a reality. Give him just _some more time_.

Mark shook these thoughts from his mind, instead choosing to think of his new wand. Ironically it had been the oldest wand in the shop as Ollivander had informed him excitedly. Truthfully, by that time, Mark was just glad about the fact that a wand had chosen him at all.

The applewood wand was much longer than he had expected; at fourteen and a half inches, it was longer than even his thigh. He needed to find some way to properly carry it on his person, just as Professor McGonagall had. Maybe he could fashion a holster of some sort, with some of the stuff he had in his room.

After they had returned home from their shopping trip, Mark had spent the evening studying the old piece of craftsmanship under a magnifying lens, hoping to understand what seemed to be an extremely sensitive form of magic. Perhaps one day he could learn to make his own wand.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been reworked and elaborated. There were POV inconsistencies, and thus the rework is extensive.
> 
> Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	6. Anticipations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been extensively reworked and elaborated. There were inconsistencies in POV, and the dialogue lacked oomph, so it was rewritten.

31st July 1991

Harry looked down at the reddish wooden wand in his hand. Today had been the best birthday- no, scratch that- the best day of his life. He was a _wizard_!

Now seated on the thin mattress back at his room, he still couldn’t believe all that had happened the past week. He knew he couldn’t describe the sheer joy and the multitude of feelings that welled in his heart to anyone; he just wouldn’t know where to start.

Magic was real and Harry was a wizard, just like his parents had been. In another month, he would be headed to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to learn magic. According to his new (and rather large) friend Hagrid, this was the finest school of magic there was. But more importantly, he would be going away from the Dursleys, if only for ten months out of twelve.

It had all begun on Wednesday morning when a letter arrived in the mail for him. Harry had never before received a single piece of correspondence in his life, not even from the library. So, he had been surprised to find someone writing a letter to him.

Uncle Vernon had been of the same opinion, dismissing it as some mistake as he snatched the barely opened envelope from his nephew. Only, it wasn’t, since it had been clearly addressed to _Mr. H Potter, Smallest Bedroom, 4, Privet Drive_. That specifically meant Harry.

Uncle Vernon had then recognised the sender and driven both Harry and Dudley out of the kitchen. Aunt Petunia had looked scared, as if being haunted by some ghost she had left buried in the past, while Uncle Vernon had been mad about the fact that someone was apparently spying on the Dursley household. What had followed next was utter madness.

More and more letters arrived for Harry every day. Uncle Vernon boarded up the mail slot, and they still arrived. He closed up the windows and filled the door cracks. But the letters arrived all the same.

When the letters came down the chimney and blew out the electric fireplace, Uncle Vernon had snapped and forced them all on a wild road trip. They drove around for over two days, trying to escape the mysterious party that seemed hellbent on contacting Harry. But the letters had still followed, so they ended up in the middle of nowhere, at _Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea_.

At least that was what the last letter had been addressed to, when it was personally delivered last night by the largest person Harry had ever met, Hagrid. He had explained all about magic and his parents, and had given Harry a birthday cake; the first birthday cake that he could remember having.

In the morning they had gone to Diagon Alley, to shop for all the weird stuff that was on his school supply list. And it had been truly magical. The Alley was a wondrous place, and Harry wished he had another set of eyes to have experienced everything fully. The trip had been the most fun he had had, in like, _forever_.

Thanks to his parents, Harry now had a small fortune in Gringotts, the wizarding bank. He was actually thankful that Hagrid had been there with him on the trip, or he would have ended up buying expensive and possibly useless stuff with all the money he now had. He remembered the solid gold cauldron and winced. That would have been really embarrassing for him, turning up to class with a gold cauldron while everyone else used pewter.

He still wished that he could have bought the book on curses and counter-curses, but Hagrid had stopped him, saying he was too inexperienced with magic to try any of it. Plus, he learned that he couldn’t actually do any magic outside of his school till he was older. So, it wouldn’t be of any help against Dudley.

The thoughts of his new wand took him back to the conversation he had had with Ollivander. The old man had made Harry uneasy, and not just by his general behaviour. He had told Harry that his wand- holly and phoenix feather, eleven-and-a-half inches, shared a core with the wand of the man who was responsible for his parents’ death.

 _Voldemort_. Harry recalled how terrified Hagrid had been, even when saying the name of the dark lord. He had told Harry the truth of the night his parent died; truth that the Dursleys had denied him all his life.

His parents had been no deadbeat drunks. No, they had been heroes; brave heroes who had fought dark wizards alongside Albus Dumbledore, who according to Hagrid was the greatest wizard since Merlin. The Dark Lord Voldemort, or as he was more commonly known, _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_ had been their enemy in the war that ended ten years ago.

Ten years ago, on the night of that Halloween, Voldemort had come to the Potters house and killed Harry’s parents. He had then tried killing Harry. But for some reason, he failed.

Somehow, a one-year-old Harry managed to destroy the greatest dark wizard who lived; or at least that was what the wizarding world believed since Voldemort had not been seen since. All of this led to the magical world nicknaming Harry to be _The-Boy-Who-Lived_ , and he was hailed as a hero throughout.

This had all been a little difficult for Harry to believe at first, but after he was mobbed by a large group of his admirers the moment he entered the Leaky Cauldron, he was grudgingly accepted it.

Living as he had with the Dursleys, Harry had certainly never felt like a hero, let alone some powerful saviour.

The thought of the Dursleys reminded him of the fact that they had known about his being a wizard; they had known. Oh, how they had repeatedly reminded him of the burden he was, the freak child born to deadbeat parents. They had denied him the memory of his parents, and insulted it every day of the ten years that he had spent here.

Harry shook himself free of further thoughts. Today had been a good day, and he didn’t want to spoil it at all. He turned and looked at the magnificent snowy owl that was currently sleeping in its cage.

It had been Harry’s first real birthday present, and he had almost broken down in tears when Hagrid handed it over to him. All that was now left was for Harry to give his new pet a name. He decided to go through his books; maybe he would find a suitable magical name somewhere.

Almost involuntarily, his eyes darted to the makeshift calendar that was stuck to the wall. It was a piece of paper that marked the number of days that were left for him to leave for Hogwarts.

Counting down the days before he left the Dursleys behind, Harry found himself anticipating the arrival of September first.

* * *

 3rd August 1991

“You sure of this John?” Edwin asked his long-time friend. “About this school? It's legit?”

“Yes.” John smiled and nodded. “Mark’s going to be fine. This school - I can feel that this is the right thing for him.”

Addressing the lines of worry etched on Edwin’s dark forehead, he continued, “Besides I told you about the professor, right? She’s the real deal.”

Edwin sank back into the chair, his mind unable to grasp the root of his discomfort. It had been five years since he retired from active duty, and he had grown protective of Mark since.

“I trust your judgement. It’s - It’s just that-”

“You’re going to miss him?” John finished his statement for him. “Yeah, me too.”

Edwin wondered how Mark had managed to soften two tough sods like John and him. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for that kid. Trying to look at the bright side, he turned back to John.

“But hey! He’ll be learning to do magic, right? I still can’t believe it, you know,” he trailed off.

When Mark had demonstrated that trick with the coin, he had seriously thought the kid was some sort of a superhero.

“To be honest, it freaked me out for a second,” John confided in him, “But only a second.” Chuckling darkly, he added, “Can you imagine the stuff that’ll be possible if you have those abilities, out there in the field?”

“That’s what bothers me a little, John. These people, living in secret like this,” Edwin said. All of this had been swirling around in the back of his mind ever since John told him about the hidden magical world.

As a soldier, his first instinct was to distrust anyone who hid themselves and operated in secret. He could understand the logic behind it, but his heart was threatening to point the other way.

“Mark’s one of them now, you know,” John said softly, breaking the silence that had followed.

Edwin thought about Mark being a wizard, dressed in long robes and a pointy hat. He chuckled. That was _so not_ like the kid.

“I know that kid. He’ll somehow find a way to put a leg on both the worlds.”

John nodded thoughtfully before his face lit up as he remembered something.

“You should’ve seen the stuff they had in the alley,” he said, “Did Mark show you what we got?”

“Yes,” Edwin answered. “Dragonhide gloves. Still can’t fathom that actual dragons exist, let alone that I held something that was made from its hide.”

“It’s crazy,” John said, a look of childlike amusement on his face. Edwin looked at his friend and smiled inwardly.

Even though John didn’t realise it, Mark’s fascination with building and tinkering with stuff actually came from his father. Edwin still recalled the many times John had rigged up some contraption while they were on the field; the creative streak ran through both father and son.

He was brought back from his musings when John asked him a question.

“Have you decided what you’re getting him? As a going away present?”

Edwin laughed out loud. Trust John to find any excuse to buy something for his son. In a way, it was a running contest between the two of them; who could get Mark the most thoughtful gifts.

“You pamper him, John,” he spoke once his laugh had subsided. John gave him a pointed look in reply.

“You didn’t answer my question”

Edwin was about to reply back how he had an ace up his sleeve, or rather, his boot today when the sound of the door interrupted him.

“Hey dad, I’m home.”

* * *

Mark closed the door with one hand, his other trying to hold on to the guitar case. He hoped his dad had made some preparations for dinner already; he was famished.  

“I talked with Mr Cayley, and informed him that I won’t be coming in from Septem- Oh hi Edwin.”

Mark was slightly surprised to find the old man seated on his sofa when he remembered his dad telling him that he was joining them for dinner tonight. Mark slid the strap of the guitar case off his shoulder and leaned it against the wall, before trying to resume what he had been saying.

“Where was I - oh yes - I told him I won’t be coming in from September. He was alright with it.”

“That’s good. You will be taking your Sunburst with you right?” his dad asked.

“And your Washburn. Won’t be plugging it in, though.” Seeing the confused look on Edwin’s face, he explained. “Professor McGonagall warned me that electronics go haywire in a highly magical environment. Don’t want to burn the internals.”

“It’s a shame. I was hoping that you’d be able to take the Strat with you,” his dad added. Mark nodded in reply as he slumped beside Edwin on the sofa

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it though. What if I rig up some sort of shielding for it? A protective bubble or a Faraday cage of sort,” Mark said, more to himself than the others.

“Seems like you’re all set to go to Hogwarts then,” Edwin remarked. Mark turned to face him and let out a deep sigh.

“I’m still having second thoughts. Did dad tell you everything? Should I go to this school?” He tried controlling the doubts and growing anxiety that threatened to spill out. Finally, he looked him in the eye and voiced out the elephant in the room. “I don’t want to leave dad alone for his treatments.”

Edwin returned his stare for a few moments, as if forming his thoughts. Finally, he spoke.

“Well, he did tell me a lot-”

“And? What do you think?” Mark interrupted. He saw Edwin look at his dad, and they had a silent conversation of sorts.

“I think you should go,” he finished. “Looks like this is something that you really like and enjoy, and I’m sure that it will be good for you in the long run. After all, you’re a wizard now,” he chuckled.

“As for your dad, let me worry about him. We old geezers now how to take care of ourselves,” Edwin reassured Mark. “We often did you know, like back in -”

Mark found himself leaning closer before he realised that Edwin was having him on.

“Oh, come on,” he said, frustrated. “Every time. You do that every time.”

“And yet you still fall for it,” his dad said. He was right; Edwin had tried this many times before, dangling away some offhanded remarks about the various classified missions he had been on, and Mark’s curiosity always made him take the bait.

“Since we’ve now decided that you will be going to your new school,” Edwin interrupted the conversation, “I have a parting gift for my protégé.”

Mark watched as Edwin slipped his hand down his boot and unhook something. He picked it and flipped it mid-air before holding it out for Mark to take. It was a combat boot knife, complete with a sheath and elastic strap.

“From what I can tell, this magical world may not be that safe. So, I want you to have this.” Mark reached out to grab the knife, but Edwin held it back. Looking directly into Mark’s eyes, he spoke in the most serious tone Mark had ever heard him use.  

“It’s a dangerous weapon, to be used _only in emergencies_.” Mark swallowed the small lump in his throat, understanding the gravity of the situation. Edwin continued, “No showing off or fooling around okay?”

Mark nodded in agreement and took the knife in an almost reverential manner. He promised himself to treat it with the utmost respect and seriousness. He glanced at his father, who smiled in encouragement and gave his son a small nod. Mark took a deep breath and strapped the knife to his own ankle. It fit perfectly.

His father decided to break the silence, trying to return the mood back to normal.

“Remember champ, we both want you to do your best and enjoy at Hogwarts. And do try and make friends, alright?” he added in exasperation.

Mark winced inwardly. His reluctance to pursue friendships was one of the few points of disagreement between father and son. Mark was already introverted by nature, and added to his ability, he had always avoided socialization in the past. But maybe that would change when he got to Hogwarts; after all, there were bound to be other kids like him.

Marks stomach growled, interrupting his thoughts.

“Why don’t you go and get freshened up before dinner,” his dad said. “We’re having curry rice tonight.”

“Grandmums curry?” Mark asked, and got an affirmative nod in response. His face lit up and he hurried to his room to get changed. His grandmum’s curry was one of his all-time favourites, an old Indian recipe that she had passed on to her son-in-law. It was another of those things that brought him closer to his mother.

As he unbuttoned his shirt, Mark found his mouth already watering, anticipating the taste of perfectly marinated fish.

* * *

23rd August 1991

“Stupid Git!”

Ginny let out a short scream of frustration and stomped on the ground. Usually, she wouldn’t have acted out like this, but she was really mad at her git of a brother today and there was no one around here.

She kicked a small pebble into the distance before collapsing grumpily underneath the crooked apple tree. Ginny often came here when she wanted to be alone, sitting quietly to enjoy the soft sounds of the orchard around her. This was her favourite tree in the whole orchard mainly for two reasons.

Firstly, it was the oldest tree on the property, having survived five generations of Weasleys before her. And Ginny had a fondness for old and broken things. Secondly, it was sufficiently isolated from the house, so none of her idiot brothers could come to disturb her here.

She wondered whether other girls had similar problems with their brothers, but she guessed they didn’t. After all, Ginny Weasley was the only sister to her six older brothers, the seventh child of Arthur and Molly Weasley.

The youngest amongst her brothers was responsible for her current mood. He had pissed her off just a few minutes ago, claiming she was ‘ _too little to play with the boys._ ’ All because he had received his Hogwarts letter last month.

If she was being honest, Ginny had been holding on to some futile hope that she too would get her letter this year, despite her still being only ten. Perhaps the school deciding to invite her a year early because she was so good. Or perhaps by some mistake of whoever wrote the letters. Anything to be not left alone with her mother at home all day while her dad went to work.

Her dad. Ginny loved him dearly and considered him the best dad she could’ve ever asked for. Aside from being the kindest and bravest man she knew, Arthur Weasley worked in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in the Ministry of Magic in London. More specifically, he worked in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, a job that she knew he enjoyed very much.

He was an inquisitive man by nature, and was fascinated by Muggles and their life. He often spent his spare time studying and tinkering with all the weird muggle stuff he brought in from work, the shed in the garden being his workshop.

This was one of the few points of contestation between him and his wife Molly in their otherwise happy marriage. She thought this whole behaviour was too childish and immature for someone his age, and often brought it up in their conversations.

Arthur had tried to get his children involved in his experiments over the years, but only his eldest, Bill, and his youngest, Ginny, had shown any real interest in their father’s passions. Bill, who was also Ginny’s favourite brother, had graduated from Hogwarts three years ago and was now working as a curse breaker in Gringotts in Egypt.

Ginny remembered the complaints her mother had put forth when Bill had announced his decision. She hadn’t understood why her son, who had earned twelve OWLs and had been the Head-Boy at Hogwarts, would choose such a dangerous and poorly-paying job.

Even more arguments had broken out when Ginny’s second oldest brother Charlie had also followed in Bill’s footsteps, choosing to risk his life in an obscure career in dragon-handling over a glamorous one in Quidditch.

Her mother’s hopes now seemed to be resting on Ginny’s third oldest brother Percy, the perfect son. He’d nearly been insufferable all summer, pompously prancing around with his shiny new Prefect badge, a symbol of his obedient and studious nature. That had drawn the wrath of his younger twin siblings Fred and George, who had pranked him mercilessly, with occasional help from Ginny as well.

Ron, the subject of her current anger, was Ginny’s youngest brother. Being so close in their ages, they had often been forced to play together, when they were little. Even though Ron had recurrently complained about having to ‘play with a girl’, he had always stood by her, defending her occasionally from Fred and George’s more meaner pranks.

But that had changed when he realised that he would be going to Hogwarts this year, free to leave his annoying little sister behind to make new and cooler friends.

Now, in a weeks’ time, Ginny would be left alone at home. Her mother would no doubt keep her occupied with the cooking and cleaning and knitting and all the other activities she thought were appropriate for a young girl to partake in. If she was lucky, Ginny might get to spend a few hours playing with her friend Luna Lovegood, who lived just over the hill from the Burrow, which was the Weasley’s home.

There would be very little chance to sneak up to Bill’s room and read the books kept there in his library. Heaven forbid if her mother ever found out about Ginny ‘borrowing’ her brothers’ brooms from the shed to practice flying. No, Ginny’s mother insisted that she behave more ladylike, expecting her to one day become a dutiful witch married to a respectable wizard.

As these thoughts swirled around her head, Ginny found her eyes misting. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she steeled herself to wait one more year. Another year, and she would be on her way to Hogwarts, free to choose her destiny just like her brothers did.

As the sun slowly waned, Ginny found her anger and sorrow dwindle itself, her heart eagerly anticipating the day she would turn eleven.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been extensively reworked and elaborated. There were inconsistencies in POV, and the dialogue lacked oomph.
> 
> Originally when I wrote this chapter, I had a fair idea of what to present but no idea how. The result was a generic filler chapter, one of my least favourite then. Sometime later, I imagined the scenes again, this time picturing Idris Elba as Edwin. I knew immediately that the character fit was perfect, but the dialogue didn't fit at all. Now after the rewrite, I think it fits much better.
> 
> This chapter sets up Ginny as another recurring POV. Obviously, Year 1 has little sense from Ginny's POV, but that'll change once Year 2 starts.
> 
> Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	7. The Beginning of a Journey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been extensively reworked and elaborated. There were inconsistencies in POV, and the dialogue was bland, so it was rewritten.
> 
> The text in bold has been borrowed directly from Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone by J.K. Rowling.

1st September 1991

Neville Longbottom was irritated. The stupid toad his Great Uncle Algie had bought him had run away twice since they had arrived at Kings Cross Station. Holding Trevor tightly between his clasped hands, he walked towards the compartment in which he had placed his luggage earlier.

To be honest, he was not that fond of Trevor. Toads certainly weren’t his thing, nor were they currently in fashion. Neville wasn’t sure when they had been. Probably when Great Uncle Algie was at Hogwarts.

But on the platform, amongst the hundreds of students scrambling to get on the Hogwarts Express, there was a good chance of his new pet getting squished underneath someone’s foot or an oversized trunk. God forbid if someone tried feeding Trevor to their owl. His pet might be a hassle, but it was his to take care of.

Now outside his compartment, he tightened the grip on the toad with his left hand while he jiggled the latch open with his right. He had barely taken a seat when the door slid open again.

A bronze skinned boy stood in the doorway, with a large black bag slung on one shoulder and a trunk at his feet. He was about the same height as Neville, if not slightly taller, and had long black hair framing his slightly chubby face.

“Hey mate, you mind?” the boy, nodding towards the empty seat in front of Neville. Growing up as he had with his Gran, Neville hadn’t ever heard anyone talk so casually. He realised that the boy was still waiting for a reply.

“Um, yes. Come in.”

The boy gave him a small grin and turned to pull on his trunk. Neville watched with fascination as he managed to balance the black bag on one shoulder while hoisting the trunk up on the rack. The boy rested the tall bag beside him, which Neville now noticed was of a peculiar shape; it was narrow at the top, and slowly widened as it went down, before bloating up into an oblong frame.

Following the manners drilled into him by his grandmother, he decided to introduce himself to this newcomer.

“Neville Longbottom,” he said offering his right hand. The reply was not one he expected.

“Your frog, mate.”

It took a moment for Neville to register that he was referring to Trevor, who had jumped out at the first opportunity and was now making his escape.

“Oh no, Trevor.” Neville bent down and scooped the errant amphibian. Looking back at the boy, he clarified. “It’s a toad, actually. My Great Uncle Algie gave it to me,” he explained sheepishly.

“I think it wants some humidity,” the boy said, his brows furrowed. As if struck by something obvious, he turned towards the large bag and fished a weird looking bottle from it. Unscrewing the cap, he poured some water on the floor of the compartment just underneath the window.

“Here, try this. I think Trevor might like it.”

Giving a small shrug, Neville let his toad down in the small puddle and was surprised that his normally hyperactive pet didn’t jump out.

“Oh yeah,” said the boy, sweeping his hair back with one hand. “I’m Mark. Mark Smith.” He offered his hand to Neville and shook it with a firm grip. Neville made a mental note to shake hands that firmly from now on.

“Are you from a wizarding family?” asked Mark.

“Yes. I’m a pureblood. What about you?”

“I’m a first-generation wizard.”

Neville was about to tell him that the commonly used term was muggle-born when he stopped himself. Obviously, Mark must be knowing that. If he did not use it, instead opting for a rarely found archaic term, then it had to be by choice. It as wiser to stay silent. Fortunately, Mark asked the next question.

“Do you know if owls make good pets? I considered getting one in Diagon Alley, but Professor McGonagall informed me that there are school owls available at Hogwarts if I need them,” he spoke in short rapid bursts, as if his words were struggling to keep up with his thoughts.

“Well, yes,” Neville replied, his gaze moving momentarily towards Trevor, “they’re quite intelligent. Much more than most people realise. These owls are magical you see, different from the common non-magical ones you see elsewhere.”

“I live in London. Would that be a problem? Delivering mail and such?”

“They normally know to deliver mail at night. Be generally unnoticed. Great Uncle Algie once said something about concealing spells and such, but from what I remember they tamper with the owl’s sense of direction or something.” Neville tried to recollect anything more he could but came up short. “You don’t want a cat? Or a toad?” he added as an afterthought.

“Not really a cat person,” Mark said. “Plus, I have herpetophobia, so toads are out”

“Pardon me? You have what?”

“Herpeto **—** it’s a fear of reptiles,” Mark glanced at Trevor, who was basking in the sunlight from the window, “and other related animals.”

“Oh.”

Neville didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t even known such a thing existed. His face must have shown confusion, because Mark tried to clarify himself immediately.

“It’s a mild one, not **—** I’ve gotten over it mostly.” He spread his hands about six inches wide, in a rough measurement of size.

“We had these **—** these lizards at my Grandmum’s place. An infestation of sorts. Freaked me out as a child.” Looking at Neville, he continued, “Am okay with being around them now. Just not as _my_ pet.”

Neville realised he was trying to make peace with him, all with Trevor being his pet. Though he wanted to tell Mark that he wasn’t that fond of Trevor himself, Neville didn’t. It felt good to be thought about.

“What house do you think you’ll be sorted into?” asked Neville, deciding to change the topic.

“Dunno. Whatever they decide, I guess. Haven’t given it much thought, really. What about you?”

“My dad was in Gryffindor, though I guess I’ll end up in Hufflepuff,” said Neville, the anxiety that had gripped him since he’d gotten his Hogwarts letter surfacing itself.

“You don’t sound too happy about it,” Mark observed. “Isn’t Hufflepuff the house of the loyal and hardworking?”

“It is …” said Neville, pausing to word his next statement properly. “It’s generally also considered as the house where **—** where the duffers end up.”

Mark looked at him with an incredulous expression. Recognising the silent acknowledgement, Neville continued,

“I’m not a talented wizard, so it’s pretty much a given that Hufflepuff’s where I’ll end up.”

Mark opened his mouth slightly as if he wanted to say something. But he didn’t, evidently choosing not to comment on Neville’s statement.

“My Gran actually thought I was a squib until I received my Hogwarts letter. Hadn’t seen her that happy before,” Neville added in a soft voice. Realising that he had shared more than he had intended to, he clammed his mouth and straightened himself.

“What about your parents? What do they think?” Mark asked Neville, the question piercing right into his Achilles heel. His face must have shown immediate discomfort, for Mark seemed to have realised his mistake.

“It’s alright if you don’t tell me. It’s none of my business,” said Mark.

Neville nodded weakly, grateful for Mark’s thoughtfulness. An uncomfortable silence followed for a few minutes, with Mark staring out the window, while Neville focused on the silently napping Trevor.

Eventually, Neville’s gaze fell onto the large bag again, and his curiosity spilt out.

“What’s in that?” he asked.

“It’s a guitar case,” answered Mark. Neville’s face must have been as blank as his mind was, for Mark tried to clarify.

“It’s the bag for my guitar. It’s a musical instrument.”

“Like a piano?”

“Well, no. But actually yes. Technically they’re both stringed instruments,” said Mark, speaking more to himself now. He must have realised that he was only confusing Neville further. “Here, why don’t I show it to you.”

Opening the bag, he carefully removed a large wooden instrument, which Neville recognised from a poster of Weird Sisters he had seen in Diagon Alley.

“Oh, I’ve seen that before. Didn’t know it was called a guitar.” A moment later he realised something. “You know how to play that?” he asked with a hint of awe.

“Yeah,” said Mark, “been playing for four years now. Want to listen?”

* * *

“Now I don’t want to hear a single complaint about the two of you from Professor McGonagall this term. If I get a hint, the smallest-”

Ron watched his mum drone on to his elder twin brothers. He sighed. Even though it was his first year at Hogwarts, the first time he would be going away from home, his Mum had already forgotten about him. Of course, there had been the usual hovering while they approached the barrier. But once they were across, she had better things to do than worry about him.

He looked towards his baby sister Ginny who was crying silently. She would be left alone with Mum this year. Although she could be a bit annoying, Ron had always been fond of her. He gave her a small smile. She must have understood what he had been thinking about, as her tears stopped to return his smile.

“I need to get on the train Mum,” Ron said a bit loudly, trying to get her attention. His Mum turned to look at him and frowned. before taking out her handkerchief

 **“Ron, you’ve got something on your nose,” s** he took out her handkerchief and Ron tried to jerk out of her way as she approached. It didn’t work as he managed to grab him with a strong grip and began scrubbing on his nose as if it were a dirty plate.

**“ _Mum_ —geroff.” He finally wriggled free.**

**“Aaah, has ickle Ronnie got somefink on his nosie?” said one of the twins** , taking advantage of the fact that their mother’s attention had now shifted.

 **“Shut up,” said Ron** , angry at the stupid teasing of his brothers. His mother was not paying attention to them, her eyes scanning the platform instead.

**“Where’s Percy?” said their mother.**

**“He’s coming now.”**

Ron’s third oldest brother came striding into sight. **He had already changed into his billowing black Hogwarts robes, a shiny red and gold badge with the letter P pinned on his chest.**

**“Can’t stay long, Mother,” he said in his usual pompous tone. “I’m up front, the prefects have got two compartments to themselves —”**

**“Oh, are you a prefect, Percy?” said one of the twins, with an air of great surprise. “You should have said something, we had no idea.”**

**“Hang on, I think I remember him saying something about it,” said the other twin. “Once —”**

**“Or twice —”**

**“A minute —”**

**“All summer —”**

**“Oh, shut up,” said Percy** , clearly irritated. Ron smirked. As much as he hated the twins picking on him, he loved when they annoyed Percy.

**“How come Percy gets new robes, anyway?” said one of the twins.**

**“Because he’s a prefect,” said their mother fondly. “All right, dear, well, have a good term — send me an owl when you get there.”**

**She kissed Percy on the cheek and he left. Then she turned to the twins.**

**“Now, you two—this year, you behave yourselves. If I get one more owl telling me you’ve — you’ve blown up a toilet or —”**

**“Blown up a toilet? We’ve never blown up a toilet.”**

**“Great idea though, thanks, Mum.”**

**“It’s not funny. And look after Ron,”** his Mum added, almost as an afterthought.

**“Don’t worry, ickle Ronniekins is safe with us.”**

**“Shut up,” said Ron again. He was almost as tall as the twins already and his nose was still pink where his mother had rubbed it raw.**

**“Hey, Mum, guess what? Guess who we just met on the train?”**

Ron was getting impatient, and almost missed the exchange.

**“You know that black-haired boy who was near us in the station? Know who he is?”**

**“Who?”** she finally asked, irritated at their antics

**“Harry Potter!”**

**“Oh, Mum, can I go on the train and see him, Mum, oh please. …”** Ginny piped; her crying forgotten.

**“You’ve already seen him, Ginny, and the poor boy isn’t something you goggle at in a zoo. Is he really, Fred? How do you know?”**

**“Asked him. Saw his scar. It’s really there** — **like lightning.”**

**“Poor dear — no wonder he was alone, I wondered. He was ever so polite when he asked how to get onto the platform.”**

**“Never mind that, do you think he remembers what You-Know-Who looks like?”**

**“I forbid you to ask him, Fred. No, don’t you dare. As though he needs reminding of that on his first day at school.”**

Ron noticed his mother was being more protective to Harry Potter than she had ever been of him.

 **“All right, keep your hair on,”** Fred replied.

The train blew its whistle, prompting Ron and the twins to clamber on the train. Ron turned to wave at Ginny. She was laughing at George’s joke about toilet seats while running to keep up with the moving train.

As the Express left the platform Ron started to search for a compartment, anxious about his first year at Hogwarts. 

* * *

Hermione caught a hold of the guide rail running along the passage as the Hogwarts Express swayed underneath her. She was making her way to the next carriage; her previous encounter having filled her with confidence.

She had just finished exchanging introductions and pleasantries with three first-year girls like herself—Mandy Brocklehurst, Sally-Anne Perks, and Megan Jones—and she had found out that despite being purebloods and half-bloods, only one of them had bothered opening any of their schoolbooks.

Being a muggleborn herself, Hermione had been extremely anxious regarding her own lack of magical knowledge. So, she had decided to introduce herself—and in the process, assess all her fellow first years on the Express.

As she neared the next compartment, she could hear faint sounds of someone playing the guitar inside. Curious, she slid the door open to look inside.

There were four occupants; all boys. Two of them—dressed in black Hogwarts robes like her—were half-standing-half-sitting on the seats. They were older than her, both having identical red hair and freckles, and to Hermione’s surprise, identical grinning faces.

The other two occupants looked her age, but looked different otherwise. One was dressed in an old-fashioned shirt, with pale skin and short blond hair, while the other was dressed in a Led Zeppelin t-shirt and jeans, his hair long and skin light brown. He was the one playing a large guitar, and had stopped to look at her when she opened the door.

“Can I help you?” he asked, snapping Hermione from her reverie.

“Oh, yes. I’m a first-year, so I decided to visit all the compartments and introduce myself to everyone,” said Hermione, “I’m Hermione Granger, muggleborn. Are you first years too?”

Her tone must have been a bit fast, for the blond boy seemed dazed and the black-haired boy widened his eyes. The two twin redheads were unfazed, however. They turned to look at each other, their grin widening before they turned back.

“Fred and George Weasley, third-years, at your service,” they both said simultaneously while offering their hands—one his left while the other his right—for her to shake. “Nice to meet you, Hermione Granger Muggleborn,” they added as she shook them.

Hermione was about to retort to their obvious attempt to tease her when the black-haired boy intervened.

“Nice to meet you, Hermione. I’m Mark.” He took a small pause to brush the hair off his face, “Mark Smith.” Pointing towards the other boy, he added, “This is Neville Longbottom. We’re both first years as well.” Hermione noticed him give Neville a small kick on the foot, which brought the boy out of his stupor.

“Uh, hi,” Neville offered with a weak smile, trying to hide his earlier awkwardness.

Realising she would have to take charge of the conversation if she wanted answers to her questions, Hermione took this as an invitation to join the boys in the compartment. She walked in, ‘ _accidently’_ shoving both Fred and George before taking a seat beside Neville.

“Are any of you Muggleborn?” she asked.

Neville and the Twins shook their heads, while Mark nodded with a bit of reluctance.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Oh, wonderful!” said Hermione, “I was so shocked at first, you know, when Professor McGonagall came to our house to tell me I was a witch. Then she turned the desk into a pig, and I found out about magic. Was it her that came to your house too?”

“Yes.”

“Did she take you to Diagon Alley too? Isn’t it wonderful?” Hermione spoke, her enthusiasm genuine.

“It’s great.” Mark’s enthusiasm didn’t seem to be so genuine.

“Have you read any of our textbooks?” Hermione was having to control herself from asking all her questions at once. It was a sure-fire way to scare someone off, as she knew by experience.

For a moment Mark’s eyes looked straight at her, as if seeing through her. He then shifted slightly in his seat before answering.

“Yeah, I skimmed through them. Surface reading of sorts.”

“Really?” asked Hermione, finally happy to meet someone interested in their studies. “I’ve read them too. Actually, I managed to memorise some of them,” she added sheepishly. “What do you think of the first chapter from Standard Book of spells; the one on the power draw procedures?”

* * *

Neville watched in amazement as the girl—Hermione Granger—kept asking questions to Mark, her tone picking up pace like the Express pulling out of Kings Cross. To top that, Mark was able to match her pace in answering, though his replies were short. Evidently, he wasn’t keen on elaborating any more than what was required of him.

Neville turned to share a look of incredulity with Fred and George, who were barely managing to hold in their laughter. Clearly, Hermione Granger didn’t know when to stop.

The Weasley twins had entered their compartment a couple of hours ago when Mark had been demonstrating the guitar to Neville. They were there to prank the ‘firsties,’ but on seeing the guitar they had been distracted long enough to forget about it; they were both fans of the Weird Sisters.

After that, the four of them had talked about anything and everything. The twins, who were both great guys, told them stories of various pranks that they had already pulled off during their two years at Hogwarts. The ‘crazy music’, as George called it, had continued, with the twins asking Mark to perform more and more weird pieces.

Neville had initially felt out of place; after all, he didn’t have much to contribute to the conversation. Yet, the three of them had still treated him as an equal, and after a while, he had even cracked a few jokes.

 “ **—** well, I need to get going now. Nice meeting all of you.” Neville realised that he had zoned out on Hermione, and gave another awkward smile to the girl. He watched her get up and give the twins a disapproving look before walking out of the compartment with the same gusto with which she had entered.

Once the door slid shut, a silence lingered for a few moments. Then Mark spoke.

“Well, that was interesting.”

Another silence followed before Neville chuckled. Then Fred gave a snort and broke out laughing. George soon followed. Mark gave an amused chuckle before joining in, and the sheer absurdity of the laugh caused Neville to succumb too.

Before boarding the Express, Neville had a wondered whether he would be able to make new friends at Hogwarts. He didn’t have to worry about it now. 

* * *

Ron watched as the Hogwarts Express pulled into Hogsmeade station. He had just finished changing into Bill’s old school robes. They were a bit short for him, not fully covering his sneakers as they should. Not that he had much choice in the matter; these were the only ones close to his size. He looked at his new friend Harry Potter, dressed in brand new robes which fit him perfectly.

 _Harry Potter_.

Ron still couldn’t fully believe that he’d met the boy-who-lived, let alone shared the whole train ride as friends. The more he thought about it the more absurd it seemed. A scrawny kid dressed in shabby, ill-fitting clothes, and a pair of round spectacles—which were a bit smaller and being held together by tape—sitting on his nose. No one would’ve guessed he was _the Harry Potter_ but for the famous lightning bolt scar on his forehead.

He wasn’t at all like Ron had expected him to be. Being famous and all, he had expected Potter to be an arrogant kid—much like Draco Malfoy. But he was quiet, unassuming and friendly. More importantly, he was loyal as well—to someone he had barely met an hour ago.

The both of them had been in the compartment when Draco Malfoy came in, his stupid thugs behind him. After insulting Ron and his family, the ponce had offered his hand in friendship to Harry. For a moment, Ron thought Harry would take it; after all, why would he want to be friends with stupid Ron Weasley, with his stupid hand-me-downs and stupid corned beef sandwiches.

But he had refused. Not only that, he had outright stood up for Ron, citing he was the reason that Harry was refusing Draco’s friendship. At that moment, launching himself to fight Malfoy and his thugs, Ron knew that Harry was going to be a great friend to him. Now, Ron hoped he would be able to match it.

Looking once more at his hand-me-down robes, Ron silently chided himself. At least his clothes were somewhat his size. Harry’s muggle clothes had been at least three sizes too large for him.

At first, Ron had thought that it was some sort of strange muggle fashion. But from what Harry told him, it was clear that the so-called great Harry Potter hadn’t, in fact, lived a great and comfortable life as people believed. He too had to do his chores—Ron was sure that Harry had to do more than him—and content himself with his cousin’s hand me downs. The most incredible fact was that Harry Potter hadn’t known that he was a wizard until he was eleven years old—had no idea he was the Boy-Who-Lived.

As he fiddled with his robe impatiently, Ron saw the bushy-haired girl—Hermione Granger, she had called herself—walk past their compartment. He remembered her earlier visit, bombarding both him and Harry with a slew of questions that they both had been overwhelmed by.

Even though he had made light fun of it, he had been hit hard. A girl his age, who hadn’t known that she was a witch until a month ago, was now clearly much more knowledgeable about magic than him.

Was he really ready for this? Ron was now more nervous about Hogwarts than he’d ever been before; all his doubts had decided to flood in together.

Could he live up to Bill’s genius? Or Charlie’s skills? Even though he was annoying, Percy had a discipline that Ron could only dream of matching. Fred and George were literal geniuses, not to mention the huge reserve of confidence and nerve they carried around like a sack of galleons.

Before his thoughts could encroach upon himself, a voice echoed through the train.

**“We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately.”**

Ron looked at Harry, who was tending to his beautiful snowy owl, Hedwig. Ron found himself absently patting his pocket, where his useless pet rat Scabbers was soundly napping. He had been Percy’s pet before being dumped on Ron; the new prefect had gotten a new owl along with his new robes.

Shaking his reverie, Ron thought about the upcoming challenge. Would he be sorted into Gryffindor? The rest of his brothers were all Gryffindors, but then each one of them had something special. What did Ron have? What fate would Hogwarts hold for him?

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been extensively reworked and elaborated. There were inconsistencies in POV, and the dialogue was bland, so it was rewritten.
> 
> Mark's Herpetophobia was not mentioned in the earlier version, and that's because I had originally intended it to be revealed later. While reworking the dialogue, however, it flowed out naturally and I found no reason to omit it. Maybe this will work out a bit better. 
> 
> This chapter sets up Neville, Hermione, and Ron as the remaining recurring POV characters for Book One. Onto Hogwarts next.
> 
> Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	8. Hoggy Warty Hogwarts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been reworked and elaborated to flow better.
> 
> The text in bold is directly borrowed from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone by J.K. Rowling

1st September 1991

Harry shivered slightly as he stepped onto the platform. He wasn’t sure if it was the cold air or just his nerves. Perhaps a bit of both. He looked around the platform packed with students of all sizes—their black Hogwarts robes slightly shimmering in the dim light of old gas-style lamps—shuffling around to probably find their friends. One of the lamps—which Harry guessed was actually running on magic—was bobbing slightly. It took a moment for him to realise that it wasn’t one of the platform lights but a lamp being held high by the already tall Hagrid.

 **“Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here!”** the booming voice of Hagrid echoed all over the platform. On noticing him, he gave Harry a slight nod. **“All right there, Harry?”**

**“C’mon, follow me—any more firs’ years? Mind your step, now! Firs years follow me!”**

The first-year students began following Hagrid down a steep and narrow path. It was pitch dark; the path flanked by thick trees on either side. All the students were silent, sticking close so as to not get lost along the way.

**“Yeh’ll get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” Hagrid called over his shoulder, “jus’ round this bend here.”**

As he turned to look up where Hagrid was pointing, Harry found himself joining all the students in their collective awe of the sight in front of them. The path had opened onto the edge of a great black lake—a high mountain on the other side. Perched atop it, a massive castle, the many windows in its towers and turrets sparkling in the starry sky.

 **“No more’n four to a boat!” Hagrid called,** drawing Harry’s attention away from the castle of Hogwarts. Harry saw the fleet of little boats that Hagrid was pointing at. Harry and Ron entered one of the boats, trying to keep their balance as the small vessel rocked underneath them. The girl from earlier—Hermione—seemed to be eager to join them. But to her obvious dismay, two rather plump boys joined them instead. Harry let out a sigh of relief as he watched her go to another boat instead; he had found her a bit too overbearing when she had visited them earlier.

“Watch out for Trevor, Nev,” said one of the new boys on the boat. Harry turned to look at him. He had a dark face and hair as black as his own, though they were styled differently. If Harry had to say, it looked like a poor imitation of a rock star’s haircut—something that didn’t suit the boy’s face very well.

The other boy, who was checking his pockets for something, had short blond hair—the style old fashioned. He retrieved something out of his left pocket, holding it tightly in his hand. Harry recognised it as a toad; it must be the boy’s pet.

Harry’s wandering eyes locked with gaze with the black-haired boy—he just smiled casually, giving Harry a greeting nod.

“It’s pretty sick, isn’t it?”

It took a moment for Harry to realise that he wasn’t talking about an actually ill person but instead referring to the castle they were headed towards. Harry turned around in the boat to take another look at it.

“Yes. It is,” said Harry, his eyes taking in the glimmering lights in the castle that were being reflected in the dark water of the lake. Before Harry could add anything else, Hagrid’s voice boomed again.

**“Everyone in? Right then—FORWARD!”**

**The boats started moving at once, gliding across the lake, which seemed smooth as glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at the great castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed nearer to the cliff on which it stood.**

As they silently approached the castle, Harry felt a weird sensation build up inside him. He remembered getting a similar feeling when he had entered Ollivander’s at Diagon Alley—only this time it was much more potent.

“I’m Ron. Ron Weasley,” said Ron, drawing Harry’s attention back inside the boat. Ron and the two other boys were making introductions. The blond boy with the toad went next.

“I’m Neville Longbottom.”

“Mark Smith,” said the other boy, “Are you Fred and George’s brother?” he asked Ron, who nodded with a slight reluctance. Harry had gotten the impression earlier that Ron wasn’t fond of being recognised as someone else’s brother. Harry realised that he was the only one left.

“I’m Harry Potter,” he said, silently watching their reactions. The blond boy—Neville—widened his eyes in surprise as his eyes flitted towards Harry’s forehead, looking for the ‘famous’ scar. Mark, on the other hand, showed no sign of surprise. He just stared at Harry for a few moments—his head slightly cocked, as if he were examining some rare specimen. After a long minute, he finally spoke.

“Nice to meet you.”

Harry recognised it to be a measured response; the boy had wanted to say something more—ask something of him. Harry was glad. He could do with another person who _didn’t_ want to know how he defeated a dark lord as an infant.

**“Heads down!” yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached the cliff; they all bent their heads and the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle until they reached a kind of underground harbour, where they clambered out onto rocks and pebbles.**

Harry and Neville clambered out first, followed by Ron and Mark. **They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the huge, oak front door of the castle. Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on it.  
**

* * *

As the door swung open, Mark saw Professor McGonagall standing in emerald green robes—she looked much more in place in them than she had on their trip to Diagon Alley. The large man who had escorted them spoke to her.

“The fir’s years, Professor McGonagall”

“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.”

With a surprising strength for her frame, Professor McGonagall pulled the large and heavy door wide open. Beckoning the students to follow, she began walking with long purposeful strides. As they moved along the grand stone corridor, Mark could hear the ‘aahs’ and ‘oohs’ of the other students behind him. It wasn’t that he was unimpressed by the grandeur of the castle; he had simply seen it before, back when he had _gleaned_ Professor McGonagall in Diagon Alley. Besides, he had other thoughts occupying his mind right now.

Just a few minutes ago, Mark had introduced himself to the most interesting person he had ever met—Harry Potter. Not because he was the Boy-Who-Lived—to be honest, Mark didn’t understand the hero-worship of a boy who had supposedly killed a dark lord as a baby. No—the reason Mark found him interesting was that Harry Potter was the first person who Mark had found impossible to _glean._

His mind was there; Mark could always sense someone’s presence around him. But when he tried to enter it, he found himself lost in obscurity—as if trying to find his way in an extremely dense fog with a visibility of mere inches. It was— _fascinating._

As they walked past a large doorway, Mark could sense the presence of hundreds of students behind it—it must be the rest of the school. Professor McGonagall just walked past it, however, leading them instead to a smaller chamber in which they all crowded.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” said Professor McGonagall in a tone that immediately silenced the whispers and chatter amongst the students. “The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly.” Her eyes roamed around the room, the students now hanging on to every word.

“But before you take your place in the Great Hall for the Welcoming Feast, you will be sorted into your Houses. The House Sorting is a very important ceremony, for while you are here at Hogwarts, your House will be your family—”

Mark zoned out. He had already _gleaned_ and listened to Professor McGonagall’s speech. Not surprisingly, it was the same one every year. She explained the House system, the points that they would earn and lose for their conduct, and the general instructions about following the rules and listening to prefects. Nothing odd. Nothing new.

Once she was finished, she suggested that they smarten themselves up for the ceremony. Her eyes lingered on the dark smudge on Ron’s nose, a disapproving look on her face. When they met his own, Mark gave her a small grin. She acknowledged it with a slight nod, a hint of a grin on her thin lips.

“Please wait quietly,” she said. “I shall return when we are ready for you.”

Mark watched her leave the chamber, the whispers resuming the moment she disappeared.

“How exactly do they sort us?” he heard Harry ask Ron.

“Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot. Something about a test—wrestling a troll or something,” the redhead replied nervously. Mark groaned inwardly. Trust Fred to try and prank his brother on his first day.

“I don’t think Fred was serious,” said Mark. “They wouldn’t test us before teaching us anything.”

Ron nodded in understanding while Harry’s face regained some colour. Mark reckoned he was much more nervous than he was letting on. Hermione Granger, on the other hand, began whispering about the spells she had already learned in preparation of whatever test awaited them.

Before he could say anything to calm the hyper-anxious girl, several people suddenly screamed. Mark turned to see about twenty pearly-white figures streaming in through the back wall. Ghosts.

Mark recognised them from the description in his books. He saw that the translucent floating spirits had not noticed the group of students standing below them; they were too busy arguing amongst themselves. Eventually one of them did—a bald, fat monk, straight out of a Robin Hood book.

“New students! About to be Sorted, I suppose?” he asked. Mark nodded automatically along with the rest of the students. The rather jovial monk clapped his hands.

“Hope to see you in Hufflepuff then! My old House, you know.”

‘Well,’ Mark thought, ‘if that was a Hufflepuff, it can’t be as bad as Neville said. Even their ghost is cheery.’

Any further thoughts and conversation were cut short when Professor McGonagall entered the chamber and asked the ghosts to move along—they complied at once. She then turned to the dumbstruck students and gave instructions to form themselves into a line and follow her silently. She walked ahead—her pace even swifter than before—and led them towards a large doorway— the one that Mark had noticed before—the entrance into the Great Hall.

Once inside Mark’s jaw hung open in awe. Even though he had seen it before, both in _Hogwarts: A History_ and while gleaning into Professor McGonagall’s mind, the sheer scale and realism of the vast ceiling—enchanted to look like the night sky—was breath-taking.

Levitating candles illuminated the room which was occupied with four long tables where all the older students were seated. Another table at the top of the hall seated the teachers. Mark immediately recognised the Headmaster—Chief Warlock and Supreme Mugwump Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore—seated in a tall gold chair at the centre of the table, his long white beard glowing softly in the candlelight.

Mark attention was soon drawn back to Professor McGonagall, who had now placed a small three-legged stool in the middle of the room. Upon it sat the Sorting Hat. Even though he had been expecting it, Mark jerked back a little when the brim of the old, ragged hat ripped open like a mouth and began singing:

**_“Oh, you may not think I’m pretty,_ **

**_But don’t judge on what you see,_ **

**_I’ll_ ** **_eat myself if you can find_ **

**_A smarter hat than me._ **

**_You can keep your bowlers black,_ **

**_Your top hats sleek and tall,_ **

**_For I’m the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_ **

**_And I can cap them all._ **

**_There’s nothing hidden in your head_ **

**_The Sorting Hat can’t see,_ **

**_So try me on and I will tell you_ **

**_Where you ought to be._ **

**_You might belong in Gryffindor,_ **

**_Where dwell the brave at heart,_ **

**_Their daring, nerve, and chivalry_ **

**_Set Gryffindors apart;_ **

**_You might belong in Hufflepuff,_ **

**_Where they are just and loyal,_ **

**_Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_ **

**_And unafraid of toil;_ **

**_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_ **

**_If you’ve a ready mind,_ **

**_Where those of wit and learning,_ **

**_Will always find their kind;_ **

**_Or perhaps in Slytherin_ **

**_You’ll make your real friends,_ **

**_Those cunning folk use any means_ **

**_To achieve their ends._ **

**_So put me on! Don’t be afraid!_ **

**_And don’t get in a flap!_ **

**_You’re in safe hands (though I have none)_ **

**_For I’m a Thinking Cap!”_ **

Thunderous applause followed the song, and Mark joined in almost involuntarily—the only first year to do so. He couldn’t help it—he would always appreciate a well-composed rhyme, no matter its source. Professor McGonagall unrolled a roll of parchment and cleared her throat, silencing the Hall full of students immediately.

 **“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,” she said. “Abbott, Hannah!”** she called out the first name.

The girl to whom it belonged shuffled out of the line and went to sit on the stool. The hat took a moment, before shouting out its decision in a rough, raspy voice.

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

She proceeded to the table underneath the yellow and black banner—depicting a large badger, the symbol of Hufflepuff—to the cheers of her new housemates. Susan Bones was next, and she too was sorted into Hufflepuff. Terry Boot and Mandy Brocklehurst were sorted into Ravenclaw and joined their house underneath the blue and silver banner, adorned with a large bronze eagle.

Lavender Brown was next, and she became the first Gryffindor. As she walked towards the table underneath the scarlet and gold banner, which depicted a roaring lion, Mark noticed that she received the heartiest reception yet. In contrast, Millicent Bulstrode—who was sorted into Slytherin—received a largely reserved welcome. The students sitting underneath the green and silver banner were as composed as the regal serpent that was the symbol of their House.

Mark looked at the impatient faces seated at the tables and realised that the dinner was being held up by the sorting. His thoughts tapered off to food, and he wondered what would be served for dinner afterwards.

Lost in his thoughts of chips and steak, Mark realised that he missed Hermione Granger’s sorting—she had joined in with the Gryffindors already. Now it was Neville’s name that had been called.

Mark tried giving his new friend a reassuring pat on the back, who turned and gave him a grateful smile before walking towards the wooden stool. His nerves must have been on an edge, for he stumbled a little on the way, drawing a small round of laughter from the students.

The laughter subsided when the sorting hat, placed on Neville’s head, took longer to give an answer than it had taken with anyone else before. Mark could make out that his friend—whose eyes were covered by the oversized hat—was arguing in whispers with the hat. Whatever it was about, Neville evidently lost—he stomped away in anger when the hat finally shouted “GRYFFINDOR!”

Mark watched as Neville made his way to the Gryffindor table, a set of redheaded twins enthusiastically welcoming him. Once he was seated, Neville’s eyes wandered onto Mark, and he gave him a wave. Mark replied with a thumbs up; he was happy that his friend had gotten into the House he desired.

He had almost fudged up any chance of friendship with Neville earlier today on the Express. The one-time Mark had decided not to _glean_ into someone’s mind before a conversation, he ended up stumbling onto the sensitive topic of Neville’s parents. Thankfully, they had been able to recover the conversation and struck a friendship. It was times like that when Mark wondered how normal people managed to converse without stepping on to each other’s toes.

In all, he was glad now. Aside from Neville, Mark had also managed to befriend Fred and George, two of the most energetic people he had ever met. He wondered what his Dad would think of that—his shy, introverted son managing to make three new friends before even reaching the school.

Turning his attention back, Mark witnessed the sorting of a pair of twin girls. Interestingly, Padma Patil and Parvati Patil were separated into Ravenclaw and Gryffindor respectively; Mark reckoned they must be as different in their personalities as they were identical in their appearance.

His musings were cut short when the hall broke out in loud whispers; those akin to rumours and gossip. Mark realised that the reason behind it was Harry Potter; The Boy-Who-Lived was about to be sorted.

He watched as the thin, short boy with messy hair and round glasses walked over to the stool and sat on it. The moment the hat was placed upon his head, it was as if the entire Great Hall had held its breath.

It took time. If Mark had to guess, it was about as long as it took with Neville, if not longer. Harry, who Mark noticed had been gripping the edge of the stool tightly, slumped in relief when the hat finally called out its decision— “GRYFFINDOR!”

The reception which the boy received was the loudest one yet. Even students at other tables were applauding, while the students from Gryffindor were going crazy. Fred and George were yelling, “We got Potter! We got Potter!” while they danced in a jig, and Harry seemed to shrink in all of the attention that he was receiving.

“SMITH, MARK”

Mark snapped to attention, slightly surprised that his name had been called. There must not have been anyone between him and Harry. Silently cracking his knuckles, he moved to towards the three-legged stool and the fate that awaited him. The moment the hat slipped over his eyes, a voice spoke directly inside Mark’s mind.

“ _Well, well, well. What do we have here? Interesting. Oh, very interesting indeed. Haven’t seen one of you at Hogwarts in a long time. Why—oh yes, I see.”_

Mark was getting increasingly confused. Instead of talking to him, the Hat was lost in its own crazy thoughts.

_“My thoughts are far from madness, Mr Smith. Looking inside another’s mind is a daunting task indeed, as you very well know.”_

“Sorry,” he whispered quickly. “I meant no disrespect. Wait, you know about —”

_“Indeed. Your ability is a rare one, Mr Smith, even amongst the greatest of wizards.”_

Mark froze. He hadn’t planned on telling anyone about it.

 _“Oh, don’t you worry dear boy. I’m bound to secrecy. After all, the fact that you made it here —”_ the hat trailed off. _“Now, where to put you?”_

Mark relaxed. With a slight curiosity, he listened to the Hat’s scrutiny of his characteristics.

_“An excellent mind indeed, with a thirst for knowledge. Abundant creativity too. Hard working—sometimes, I see. Ambition and courage in plenty, and bravery and cunning as well. Difficult, yes. Very difficult to decide”_

Mark found this interesting. He had never really considered himself hardworking or cunning.

_“You’ve seen a lot haven’t you?”_

The words ran down Mark’s back like a glass of ice water. Judging from the hat’s tone, it had found _those_ memories inside his mind. He wondered whether the Hat was just some clever piece of magic or if it was actually sentient.

_“Indeed. I am sentient—at least in the sense you use that term. After all, life and death is a circle—there is no beginning.”_

“I mean no offence sir,” Mark tried to immediately apologise. He decided to try and placate the Hat. “Do you—Do you have a name?”

 _“Oh my. I haven’t been asked that question for many years. I believe the last time was twenty years ago…”_ The hat was lost momentarily in some dreamy memory before it replied to Mark’s question. 

_“To answer your question, Mr Smith, I do indeed have a name, one that my maker gave me a thousand years ago—Elijah_ ”

“That’s a nice name.” Mark immediately realised how stupid that sounded. He decided to ask something else. “Do you have the same ability as me?”

 _“In a manner of speaking. You know, you may want to read more about it if you wish. The libraries at Hogwarts are quite extensive._ ”

“Okay. Thanks, I guess.”

_“Of course. Now the question still remains. Where do I put you?”_

“Wherever you decide.”

 _“Really? You would willingly give up a chance to choose your future House?”_ Elijah asked incredulously. _“This is a forked path, Mr Smith. Each one leads to vastly different destinies. You would leave that decision upon an old hat like me?”_

“I don’t believe in destiny,” Mark whispered. “Besides, you aren’t just any old hat. You’ve stuck around for a thousand years, looked into what—hundred thousand minds? More? You’re adequately qualified in my opinion.”

_“Well reasoned. Very well-reasoned, indeed. How about Ravenclaw? With your mind, that’s where you’ll be expected.”_

Mark shrugged. He had meant what he said earlier.

_“Hmm. Hufflepuff is another path; one on which you’ll be likely to make friends. You certainly didn’t mind that option when you talked to your friend earlier on the Express.”_

“Anywhere’s fine.”

_“Really? Even Slytherin? Hmm. You certainly have the required traits. But you won’t be welcome there, given your parentage. Are you willing to take that path?”_

Mark thought about it. Fred and George had told him all about the prejudice Slytherin had against first-gen wizards—all things non-magical, really. But he knew that already, and his decision still stood.

“I’ll manage.”

A booming laugh filled his mind. Of whatever reaction Mark could have expected from Elijah, this was not one of them.

 _“You leave me no choice Mr Smith,”_ the sentient hat said, once it had calmed down. _“I tried everything, and you still persisted. You are a rare wizard, and I do hope to talk to you again someday. Now, let me send you to the only place where you truly belong—”_

* * *

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Harry joined in the applause as he watched Mark place the hat back on the stool. As he walked towards their table, the Weasley twins and Neville were applauding the loudest. The boy seemed to have made a few good friends in his House already.

Mark had taken the longest to get sorted; a little longer than both Neville and him, according to Percy Weasley. The Gryffindor prefect had been explaining the concept of a ‘Hatstall’ to Hermione Granger that Harry had overheard.

He now watched as “Thomas, Dean”—a boy darker than Mark and taller than Ron—was sorted into Gryffindor as well. After “Turpin Lisa” was sorted into Ravenclaw, it was his friend Ron’s turn **. Harry crossed his fingers under the table and a second later the hat had shouted, “GRYFFINDOR!”**

**Harry clapped loudly with the rest as Ron collapsed into the chair next to him.**

**“Well done, Ron, excellent,” said Percy Weasley pompously across Harry as “Zabini, Blaise,” was made a Slytherin. Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll and took the Sorting Hat away.**

Professor Dumbledore, who Harry recognised from the Chocolate Frog Card he had found on the Express earlier, stood up to address the students. He seemed to be in a genuinely happy mood, smiling as widely as his outstretched arms.

**“Welcome!” he said. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!”**

Harry was caught unaware by the eccentricities of the Headmaster. As Percy put it succinctly, **“He’s a genius! Best wizard in the world! But he is a bit mad, yes.”**

Any further thoughts were quelled by the appearance of the feast. Harry piled his plate with a little of everything. Not used to being allowed to have as much as he wanted, Harry was a bit hesitant at first. When he witnessed how the others were eating, he relaxed considerably.

People were taking everything and anything from the large silver serving plates. Mark was attacking his plate with manners that would have made Aunt Petunia proud, yet still managing to eat faster than everyone else around him. Except for Ron of course. Unconstrained by the shackles of table manners, his friend was simply shovelling food into his mouth as quickly as he could.

The food was all delicious, and the ghost in the ruff seemed to think so too. Harry found out that Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington—or as he was more commonly known, Nearly Headless Nick—was the resident ghost of Gryffindor tower. His moniker was well earned in Harry’s opinion—the man had died due to a botched beheading, leaving his head hanging from the neck by a thin strip of skin and sinew. Any normal individual would’ve lost their appetite at the sight; but these were hungry growing students, who just laughed at the sight while munching on a chicken leg.

As soon as they finished their food, desserts appeared. Harry reached for his favourite—treacle tart. Beside Harry, Percy and Hermione were discussing the upcoming lessons. Some of the other students started talking about their families. Seamus told about his muggle father and magical mother, while Neville talked about how his Gran had brought him up, and how they had tried forcing him to show any signs of magic during childhood, accidentally or otherwise.

Harry snorted to himself. It was ironic really, how his and Neville’s positions were reversed. After all, the Dursleys had tried their damnedest to stamp _out_ his freakishness, as they had so kindly informed him on his birthday.

Glancing up to the head table, Harry saw Hagrid drinking deeply from his goblet. **Professor McGonagall was talking to Professor Dumbledore. Professor Quirrell** —who Harry recognised from his visit to the Leaky Cauldron— **was talking to a teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin.**

**It happened very suddenly. The hook-nosed teacher looked past Quirrell’s turban straight into Harry’s eyes—and a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar on Harry’s forehead.**

**“Ouch!” Harry clapped a hand to his head.**

**“What is it?” asked Percy.**

**“N-nothing.”**

**The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Harder to shake off was the feeling Harry had gotten from the teacher’s look — a feeling that he didn’t like Harry at all.**

**“Who’s that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?” he asked Percy.**

**“Oh, you know Quirrell already, do you? No wonder he’s looking so nervous, that’s Professor Snape. He teaches Potions, but he doesn’t want to — everyone knows he’s after Quirrell’s job. Knows an awful lot about the Dark Arts, Snape.”**

**Harry watched Snape for a while, but Snape didn’t look at him again.**

Once the desserts disappeared, Professor Dumbledore got up to speak again. **The hall fell silent.**

**“Ahem — just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.**

**“First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well.”**

**Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins.**

**“I have also been asked by Mr Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.**

**“Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch.**

“And finally, I wish to inform you that that the rooms on the right-hand side of the third-floor corridor are out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a painful death.”

Whispers broke out amongst the students, and Harry found himself laughing a little.

“He’s joking, isn’t he?” he asked Percy.

“I don’t think so,” said Percy, “Must be something important. They usually inform the prefects—”

“Please do not fret,” Professor Dumbledore spoke again, trying to reassure the students. “There are some potentially dangerous experiments being performed there, which would not be safe for any curious souls to stumble upon.” The whispers amongst the students died at that, and even Percy gave a nod.

“Now, before we retire to our beds, let us sing the school song!”

Harry watched as Professor Dumbledore drew his wand—an ornate and delicate stick, made of black wood and having small knots along its length. He gave a casual flick, making the words of the school song appear above him, written in a flowing golden ribbon.

“Everyone pick their favourite tune!” The students joined him singing,

“ _Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts_ ”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been reworked and elaborated to flow better. Few parts of Mark's POV from the preceding chapter were carried over here, while the dialogue between Mark and Elijah was reworked.
> 
> Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	9. Of Needles and Twigs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been reworked and elaborated to fit in more with the original vision of the scenes

12th September 1991

“Relax, Nev. It’s going to be alright,” said Mark, trying to reassure his nervous friend. “Plenty of people have never flown on a broom before they come at Hogwarts. I’m one of them too.”

“Oh please,” retorted Neville, barely slowing down as he walked towards the Great Hall. “I’ll bet six sickles you’ll be flying around fine. It’s like you’re naturally talented or something.”

“I beg to differ —”

“Then beg,” interrupted Neville.

Mark snorted. His friend had really started showing his sense of humour lately. Deciding not to back down, he tried to seem unfazed.

“As I was saying,” he continued, “I’m not naturally talented. I’m shit at Herbology, and you know it.” Mark started counting on his fingers but got stuck when he couldn’t think of anything else at the moment. Looking at the sole digit on Mark’s hand, Neville chuckled.

“Exactly,” he said. “You even managed to turn your matchstick into a needle at the first attempt.”

“Not so loudly,” hissed Mark, “I don’t want Hermione to hear that.”

Neville gave him a confused look as he shook his head. Slumping onto an empty seat at the Gryffindor table, he turned sideways at Mark.

“I still don’t understand why you want her to take the credit for it and gloat around.”

Mark bit his tongue. It was so bloody difficult to explain his actions to other people. Especially when it was based on knowledge that was _not_ openly available. He decided to take a different approach—after all, the best lies were the ones wrapped in truth.

“Because if she finds out, she won’t leave me alone. She’ll keep on pestering me, wanting to know what I did differently in the class. You know how dogged she is.” Mark began piling on the eggs and bacon, having remembered something.

“And to counter your earlier point,” said Mark. “I’m not what one would call athletic,” he finished pointing the fork in his hand towards his gut. Neville snorted and pointed towards Mark’s plate.

“And you’re not going to be anytime soon if you eat like that.”

“Oi! Keep your evil eye of me cheese,” Mark called him out, trying to imitate a pirate accent. Seeing no reaction from Neville, Mark realised that his friend had probably never seen a pirate movie before. Dejected, he turned his attention back to his plate, his joke crashing before it could take off.

As he reached for the pitcher of water—the pumpkin juice was just too sweet—the morning mail arrived, delivered by hundreds of swooping owls. A large barn owl landed near them; a brown-paper-wrapped parcel tied to its feet.

“It’s from my Gran,” said Neville, untying the leather strap off the regal-looking bird. Mark watched as Neville offered it a piece of bacon from his plate. “Here Harold.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a Remembrall,” said Neville holding up a glass ball. The size of a large marble, Mark noticed that it was filled with white swirling smoke inside. Down the table, he could feel Hermione Granger’s eyes rise up from the book she had been reading— _Quidditch through the Ages_ —and locking onto the magical object in Neville’s hand, obviously eager to learn about any new thing she could.

“The smoke’s supposed to turn red if you forget something,” began Neville, immediately stopping as an odd look in appeared in Mark’s eyes—he had sensed someone coming up behind them. Mark watched as a pale hand tried to swipe the Remembrall off Neville’s hand, missing just by a bare inch.

They both turned around to see Draco Malfoy standing behind them, flanked on either side by his loyal compatriots Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. He got a dirty look on his face—like a rat being denied his share of the thrash, ready to bare his teeth in a fight. Harry and Ron—sitting a few places away from them—shot up immediately, a tad too eager to get in a fight.

Mark couldn’t exactly blame them; from what he had heard, the blond Slytherin had pretty much made enemies of them on the Express itself, insulting them and their families. Even once the classes had begun, he had taken every opportunity to goad and insult the both of them. Before a fight could begin, however, Mark saw Professor McGonagall approach the table.

“What’s going on here?”

The stern voice of the Transfiguration professor had its effect; Draco paled slightly, retreating back into his usual cool façade. Ron and Harry, on the other hand, just stood their ground—the former now having a wide smirk on his face.

“Draco tried to take Neville’s Remembrall, Professor,” said Mark, taking a sip of water from his goblet. “He forgot to ask for permission beforehand.”

“I see,” said Professor McGonagall, before turning towards the three Slytherins. “Mr Malfoy, is there a reason for you to come to the Gryffindor table and inspect the belongings of your classmates?”

Mark watched Draco attempt to keep himself in check. As a first-year at Hogwarts, one quickly learned that Professor McGonagall wasn’t someone to trifle with.

“No, Professor,” Draco drawled with false sincerity. “I apologise for my actions. I was merely being curious.” He gave the professor a curt nod, then left without a word, his bodyguards following suit. Once Professor McGonagall had left as well, Mark saw both Harry and Ron relax considerably, returning to their half-eaten breakfast. He couldn’t blame them; these first few days had been quite stressful.

The classes had been certainly interesting, both in the variety of teachers and the subjects that they taught. Nothing that he hadn’t expected; except for History of Magic and Defence Against the Dark Arts—both of these were being taught by poor teachers.

At least the History classes provided him with an opportunity to take some naps—the long-dead ghost of Professor Binns who taught the class barely diverted from the textbook, which Mark had already read twice. That wasn’t the case in Defence, as the nervous stuttering of the turban-wearing Professor Quirrell interrupted any attempts to doze off.

Astronomy was certainly fun, and the magical telescopes they had used in the class were surprisingly powerful. He certainly hadn’t expected to be able to make out the storm patterns on Jupiter from a handheld device.

Herbology—After three classes of the subject, Mark was thankful for having met Neville. Even though Professor Sprout was a decent teacher, it just wasn’t his cup of tea. Neville shined at it, however, and was quickly becoming the teachers favourite.

Transfiguration was challenging—there was much that Professor McGonagall explained in the class that wasn’t mentioned at all in the pitifully thin textbook. Mark began taking notes in the class—extensive ones, his first since coming to Hogwarts—when he realised Professor McGonagall had much more on her mind that she _wasn’t able to say_ along with all that she was. Mark enjoyed turning the matchstick into a needle once he picked up subtle tricks for the proper visualisation—required for efficiently performing the transfiguration—from the Professor’s mind. Along with everything that Professor McGonagall hinted at during the beginning of the lecture, the magical theory that transfiguration depended on was quickly making this his favourite subject.

A close second was Charms; fundamentally, it had many similarities with Physics, especially with all the different theories and field drawings of power-draw patterns that Professor Flitwick was having them study at the beginning of the class. Obviously, the charms themselves weren’t that complicated yet, but Mark could see the sheer potential of the sandbox that they would open up once he learned it. Professor Flitwick’s light-hearted yet informative teaching style was just the icing on the cake.

Potions, on the other hand, had been entirely different— _interesting_. The content was a surreal mix of advanced chemistry and art class; something Mark both enjoyed and found fascinating. Professor Snape, however, was another matter entirely.

Obviously, the man was dedicated to his subject—the way he spoke of it called upon a certain amount of concentration and _intelligent_ effort from his students. His instructions were succinct, allowing more of learning opportunities than just following the standard textbooks like some off-the-shelf cookbook. It was his attitude towards the students that was entirely lacking.

He was obviously biased towards his own House—Professor Snape was the Head of House for Slytherin—and he freely gave them House points while assuming a bitter reluctance when being forced to give Gryffindor any. His brooding bat-like prowling in the class made everyone wary and nervous. Neville, who had been beside Mark during the first class, had been affected so much that Mark had to physically block him from adding the porcupine quills to the potion before taking it off the heat—a mistake that would have resulted in a boil making potion instead of a boil curing one.

All this was quite tame compared to Professor Snape’s attitude towards Harry. The moment they had entered into the classroom, the man had taken every opportunity to make some offhanded remark about Harry—how he was some spoilt kid, the new celebrity—something that hadn’t taken Mark too long to know to be untrue. Questions had been asked; difficult, nuanced questions that weren’t possible to answer unless you had read the complete text. But they hadn’t been directed at the class in general—only asked directly of Harry, his ignorance of the answers being taken as a sign of his arrogance and lack of talent. Obviously, Mark found this all odd—why was Professor Snape so clearly hell-bent on making Harry miserable?

His curiosity piqued, Mark tried to glean the greasy-haired potions master. But he was blocked. Not only that, but Professor Snape had somehow detected the intrusion on his mind, shifting immediately into a defensive stance and searching the class suspiciously. Mark had feigned ignorance and continued with the work he was supposed to do, yet he was still further confused. Professor Snape obviously did not have his ability, but there was something similar that he did have—something that was even different from what Harry had. 

Mark needed to know more about his ability; the magical world and its inhabitants had complexities that he needed to be aware of. He decided it was time he listened to Elijah’s advice and head into the library for a longer visit.

* * *

“Did you see his face, the great lump?”

Malfoy laughed, turning towards his bodyguards who, ironically, resembled two dumb lumps of lard. Harry was about to step forward and give the ponce a piece of his mind when he heard an unexpected voice do it for him.

“Go bugger off somewhere else, Draco.”

It was Mark. Harry was slightly surprised. His initial assessment of the boy had suggested that Mark was from a sophisticated sort of family—the kind that Malfoy himself likely belonged to. Certainly not someone who—as his Aunt Petunia would likely put it—used such ‘crude language’.

Harry watched Malfoy’s face turn red at Mark’s comment, cold anger building up beneath the surface. The Slytherin stomped towards where the Gryffindors were standing, Crabbe and Goyle forgotten behind in anger.

“How dare you speak to me that way, you filthy Mudblood!”

Harry had never heard that word before, but it definitely didn’t take him long to figure out that it was bad. Really bad. All the students gasped, scandalously covering their mouths at the utterance. Mark’s face, however, showed no sign of acknowledgement.

“Is that the best you can do?” scoffed Mark, leaning coolly over the upright broom in his hand—they were all out here this afternoon for their flying lessons. “Is that the best insult you have? Clearly, you’ve never visited East End.”

Harry could see Malfoy flare his nostrils as he fumed in anger. Not wanting to be back out, his eyes scanned their surroundings. Evidently, they found something in the grass, for Malfoy darted forward to grab it.

“Look! It’s the stupid thing Longbottom’s Gran sent him,” said Malfoy, brandishing the Remembrall that Neville had received in his mail in the morning—the boy must have dropped it when he lost control of his broom and fell.

“Give that back, Malfoy,” a cold voice spoke, and Harry realised that it had been his own.

“I don’t think I will,” said Malfoy, smiling nastily as he quickly mounted the broom near him. “I think I’ll leave it up that tree for Longbottom to find,” he taunted before taking off in the air.

Harry immediately grabbed his broom and mounted it, noticing Mark was following suit. Their eyes locked, and an unspoken agreement made between them— _Let’s go get this bastard._ They both took off towards Malfoy.

As the fresh air rushed through his messy hair and blasted his face, Harry suddenly felt a rush of adrenaline surge through him. A fierce joy welled, unbridled freedom to soar, a sense of belonging—he was in his element; in his heaven. Harry zoomed towards Malfoy, the gasps and shrieks of amazement from below barely registering as he took a sharp turn to face his adversary.

“Hand it over now,” Harry called out, “or I’ll knock you off that broom!”

“Oh yeah?” said Malfoy, his earlier confidence slipping off his face.

“Oh yeah,” said Mark, now positioned behind Malfoy. His longer black hair and solid frame made him look like a large bird eyeing its prey. “No bodyguards up here to save you, Draco,” he said with a predatory smile. “Once you fall to the ground, we’ll see whose blood is mud.”

Malfoy must have come to the same realisation himself; unable to find another way, he played his last card.

“Catch it then, if you can!” he shouted, throwing the Remembrall high into the air.

It felt as if time slowed down. Harry’s bespectacled eyes watched the glass ball slowly rise into the air as his body automatically leaned forward on the broom. His stare fixed on his target, Harry zoomed towards the point where he would intercept its trajectory, quickly gathering speed as he dived. As the ball neared, Harry stretched out his hand—the cold glass ball landed safely inside his palm as he pulled back on the broom. Harry’s toes brushed the freshly-mowed grass—he realised he was barely a foot above the ground before toppling gently onto it.

“HARRY POTTER”

Harry turned towards the voice and the triumphant smile that had appeared melted away. Professor McGonagall was running towards them, her face speechless with shock.

“Never—in all my time at Hogwarts—how dare you—might have broken your neck —”

“It wasn’t his fault Professor —” Parvati Patil tried to interject.

“No, the fault was mine,” said Mark, silencing the girl as well as everyone else around her. Professor McGonagall turned to look at him, her expression a mix of tempered anger and surprise.

“Explain,” she said, her jaw clenching slightly. Harry watched Mark hold onto his upright broom again, his face calm—unlike earlier, his demeanour was now respectful and attentive.

“I encouraged Harry to follow Draco in the air,” said Mark, his tone matter-of-factly. “I apologise for that. I was provoked by an insult earlier, and thus was not thinking straight.”

Harry wanted to object to this statement but found himself keeping quiet. A small fear of being expelled loomed inside of him, especially when Madam Hooch had warned them earlier to not fly without her supervision.

“And what was this insult, Mr Smith, that you found you could not handle?” asked Professor McGonagall. Mark’s eyes took on a reluctant look, and Ron stepped in.

“Malfoy called Mark a—a Mudblood, Professor,” said Ron. “And he stole Neville’s Remembrall, threatening to break it,” he finished, pointing at the glass ball in Harry’s clutched fingers.

A brief silence followed, and Harry noticed Professor McGonagall flare in anger—this time directed at Malfoy. The blond Slytherin was standing to the side, his usually impeccable robes and hair ruffled up—most likely in a fist fight with the physically stronger Mark.

“I see,” Professor McGonagall finally said. “Mr Malfoy—twenty points from Slytherin and detention with Mr Filch for use of such— _foul language_ ,” she spat out the last words. She then turned back towards them.

“Potter, Smith. Follow me,” she said before walking back towards the castle. Harry quickly handed the broom in his hand to Ron and followed her, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. Malfoy got his punishment back there on the field itself. Why did they have to go inside the castle? Was the punishment so bad? Was he going to be expelled?

His thoughts flying wildly as they walked, Harry glanced sideways to look at Mark. Unlike him, Mark was showing no sign of worry on his face. Harry felt a pang of guilt rise within; also unlike him, Mark had stepped up to take the blame of the incident, and would likely now be facing the harsher punishment. Maybe the sorting hat was right—maybe Harry did indeed belong in Slytherin.

As they neared the castle door, Harry saw Mark trying to adjust his robes and smarten himself up. Following suit, Harry too began to pat his ruffled robes. His hand found a thick twig stuck near his backside—one of the twigs from the old school broom he had ridden, likely broken off during his tumbled landing.

Walking up the marble staircase, they reached a classroom and stopped outside. Professor McGonagall politely interrupted the ongoing class and requested Professor Flitwick to borrow Wood—Harry momentarily thought she was asking for a cane to beat them with. As it turned out, Wood was a boy—a burly fifth-year Gryffindor.

“Follow me,” Professor McGonagall said to the three of them, now heading towards an empty classroom down the hall. Once they were inside, she gestured Wood to close the door, who locked them shut.

“Harry,” said Professor McGonagall, gesturing at the burly boy now standing beside her, “this is Oliver Wood, the Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Wood—I’ve found you a Seeker.”

If Harry hadn’t been under such tension, he would have found the manner in which Wood’s face lit-up to be quite comical—like a small dog bouncing in disbelief at being handed a large stick to play with.

“Are you serious, Professor?”

“Absolutely,” Professor McGonagall smirked, a hint of pride in her voice. “He’s a natural. I haven’t seen anything like it. He caught that with _one_ hand,” she said pointing towards the Remembrall—still clutched in Harry’s hand— “after a _fifty-foot_ dive.”

Fifty feet? Harry hadn’t realised that he had been that high. Actually, Harry was just barely realising that he might actually not be in any trouble at all.

“Harry,” said Professor McGonagall, drawing his attention back towards her. “That was your first time on a broom wasn’t it?”

Unable to form any coherent words, Harry just nodded dumbly in reply. He was still trying to make sense of the implications of Professor McGonagall’s words. Was she really putting him on the Quidditch Team? Ron had told him that since first-years didn’t have their own brooms, they never made the team. Hell, making the team before your fourth-year itself was a big achievement. They wouldn’t put him—a broom-less first-year with no experience—on the team, would they?

Harry looked at Mark, who hadn’t spoken anything since they left the flying grounds. The long-haired boy—now leaning on one of the desks—was beaming at him with sincere admiration, and even gave him a thumbs up. Feeling more confident, Harry turned to look at Wood, who was now circling him and studying Harry’s physique.

“He’s just the right build too —” muttered Wood, his face looking like all his prayers had been answered, “—probably a Cleansweep Seven.”

“You should consider setting up a reserve team this year, Wood,” said Professor McGonagall, breaking the burly Gryffindor captain from his musings. Looking at Mark now, she continued, “Smith here could be a solid chaser once you train him up a bit.”

Wood looked like Christmas had come early, while Mark looked like lunch was cancelled.

“Chaser?” Mark finally spluttered out, and Harry saw Professor McGonagall nod.

“I’ll see what I can do Professor,” said Wood his mind busy making calculations. “I can hold reserve try-outs with the regular ones. I can’t promise anything—but if he’s as good as you say, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I can’t play Quidditch, professor,” interrupted Mark, his voice holding in a slight panic.

“And why’s that?” Professor McGonagall asked, her eyes narrowing over her square glasses.

“I—I’m not fi—I’m not athletic, Professor,” he finally said, clearly embarrassed. Harry saw Professor McGonagall relax slightly, a shrewd expression on her face instead.

“You could be if you play,” she said. “I want you to try out for the reserve team, Smith. Or I just might change my mind about punishing you.”

“I’ll take it,” said Mark quickly, “serve detention with you or something?” Seeing the look of incredulity on Professor McGonagall’s face, he reluctantly gave in. “Or not.”

“Good,” Professor McGonagall said, now turning back to Wood. “I shall have to see if we can bend the first-year rule. I’ll have to speak with Professor Dumbledore about this. Merlin knows we need a better team this year. Severus has been gloating ever since that last match.”

Harry almost jumped back in surprise when she turned towards him again, peering with a slightly threatening expression.

“I want to hear that you’re training hard, Potter,” she said. The _or else_ wasn’t even required. Her face then softened a bit and she smiled.

“Your father would have been proud, you know. He was an excellent Quidditch player himself.” She seemed as if she wanted to add something more, but decided not to. Turning towards Wood, she motioned them to leave. Wood unlocked the door, and Harry quietly headed for it—his mind trying to hold on to the snippet of information about his father that he hadn’t known before.

As they were about to cross the doorway, Professor McGonagall called out for Mark.

“And Mr Smith,” she said, prompting Mark to turn around and look at her. “Since you have so kindly offered, you will be serving detention with me after dinner tomorrow.”

“Oh, come on”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been reworked and elaborated to fit in more with the original vision of the scenes.
> 
> Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	10. Legilimency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been reworked and elaborated.

12th September 1991

Mark stirred awake. It was still dark. He reached for his watch on the nightstand and glanced at the time. Twelve-twenty-five, the arms glowed in the dark. He groaned and sat up. Once he got up in the night, it was almost impossible for him to fall asleep again. Looked like he would have to do with four hours of sleep tonight.

Mark reached for the book that he had been reading earlier—maybe he would doze off in the common room after a couple of hours if he was lucky. As he got up and put on his slippers, he noticed the bed beside him was empty.

‘That’s odd,’ he thought, ‘Neville was supposed to be back by now.’

Maybe Madam Pomfrey decided to keep him under observation for another night. It didn’t quite make sense—Neville’s broken wrist wasn’t supposed to take this long to heal. Mark had visited him in the hospital wing before dinner, and Neville had been almost done by then.

An errant thought entered Mark’s mind and he hurriedly checked Ron and Harry’s beds. Empty. He groaned. Those idiots must have gone to that duel with Draco Malfoy.

It wasn’t that Mark didn’t appreciate the sentiment; he really did. If anyone needed a good dressing down, it was that arrogant little ponce—almost breaking Neville’s Remembrall like that. Mark had nearly landed in a few punches himself, but then Professor McGonagall showed up and he got to his senses.

But this duel at midnight tonight—it smelt of an obvious trap. Draco had walked up to the Gryffindor table during dinner to personally challenge Harry. Before Harry could say anything, Ron had accepted the challenge on his behalf, naming himself as the second (A second was someone who took your place if you died in the duel; Mark learned that when Ron explained it to a confused Harry). Mark, knowing well that the Slytherin would likely not even show up, had tried to reason with the two of them. But Ron brought up the matter of honour; there was no way they were going to back out now and be termed cowards. Mark had hoped they would forget about the whole deal by bedtime—evidently, they didn’t.

Mark cracked his neck as he descended the stone steps into the common room. He wished he was back in his room at home; he wouldn’t have had to leave the comfort of his bed for any midnight reading. If he wanted to read in his bed here, he would need to use the Lumos charm—that was like trying to read with a bloody light bulb in your hand.

The common room was completely empty, to Mark’s surprise. It looked like none of the older students had much homework yet. Shrugging, he slumped onto a plush armchair and opened the book in his hand— _Advanced Magical Theory_ by Osteria Offlewirth—before losing himself in its pages.

He was jerked back to reality when he heard the portrait hole—the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, guarded by the portrait of a Victorian lady that demanded a password for entrance—being thrown open. Multiple figures rushed in, the clatter of their feet and panicked panting heard clearly over the silence of the empty common room.

Mark looked up, expecting it to be just Harry and Ron; he was surprised to see Neville and a bushy-haired girl—Hermione Granger? —with them. All four of them were still trembling, their faces pale in terror. Only Harry seemed to have noticed Mark’s presence in the common room.

“What’s up?” asked Mark, and Ron jumped back in surprise. Mark was sure that the red-haired boy had been a hair-breadth away from actually shrieking in terror. Since no one answered, he tried again. “Where were you guys? Neville?”

Hermione avoided his gaze—probably feeling embarrassed to be out after curfew. Neville, still trembling, locked eyes with Mark and mumbled guiltily.

“The forbidden third-floor corridor.”

The forbidden what? Of all the answers he could have expected, this wasn’t one of them. As far as Mark knew, the forbidden third-floor corridor was nowhere near the hospital wing or the trophy room—the location of the clandestine duel that Harry and Ron had gone to. He frowned, and was about to ask what exactly happened when Ron suddenly broke his silence.

“Why in the world are they keeping a thing like that locked up inside a school?!” Ron said in exasperation. “If any dog needs exercise, it’s that one.”

Dog? Before he could try and make sense of Ron’s statement, Hermione spoke up.

“You don’t use your eyes, do you?” she said, her tone condescending as usual. “Didn’t you see what it was standing on?”

“The floor?!” Harry suggested. “You see, I wasn’t exactly looking at its feet. I was too busy with its heads. If you didn’t notice Hermione, there were _three of them_.”

What the—? Three heads? Dog? Mark decided that he had had enough. Since no one was bothering to explain him anything, he would just get what he needed by _gleaning_ into Ron’s mind.

“No, it was standing on a trapdoor,” said Hermione, crossing her arms smugly. “It’s _obviously_ guarding something.”

“Seems to be doing its job fine then. Drove you guys away, didn’t it?” Mark interrupted, now fully informed of the situation. Hermione gave him a scathing look, which he answered with an overly polite smile. Undeterred, she turned on Ron and Harry.

“I hope you’re pleased with yourselves. We could all have been killed—or worse, _expelled_ ,” she said before stomping her way up the girl’s dormitories.

‘Or worse expelled? The girl really needed to sort out her priorities,’ thought Mark. Especially given that it was _she_ who decided to tag along with Harry and Ron when they were on their way to the Trophy Room. They had found Neville outside the portrait, unable to get in since Percy changed the password just before curfew. Mark hadn’t known about that, as he had already been asleep by then.

“She has some nerve to say that,” Ron said, breaking the silence. “You’d think we dragged her along, wouldn’t you?”

“Don’t mind her. She’s just worried, you know. About her place here,” said Mark, surprising himself with his defence of the girl. “That’s just the way she deals with the worry.”

Ron looked at him with incredulity, while Harry’s face turned to one of recognition. Mark realised the boy must also have some of the same doubts himself.

Neville, still silent and uninvolved in the conversation, just shook his head and made for his bed. Ron followed him, while Harry kept standing in the common room. Mark saw his eyebrows were furrowed in concentration, clearly thinking about something. Knowing there was no way inside _that_ mind, Mark just turned back towards his book.

The three-headed dog had certainly piqued Mark’s interest. He recalled what Professor Dumbledore had said during the sorting—there were some experiments being performed in the third-floor corridor. Obviously, that what was the huge dog was guarding. Although Mark would have liked to go and observe them, he could understand the need for safety and security.

At first, he had thought that the four night-time wanderers had headed there intentionally. After gleaning Ron, he learned that while they were prowling around, the caretaker Filch had almost caught them. It was in their efforts to run away from him that they had ended up in the forbidden corridor. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Realising that he was barely reading the book in his hand, Mark looked up from it. The common room was empty once again—Harry must have also headed for bed. Mark wondered if he should try and sleep too. The thoughts from the earlier disturbance were too strong on his mind—ones of Hermione and her insecurities, of Ron and what he had seen of their adventure tonight, and of Harry and his impenetrable mind. There was no way he’d be able to concentrate on Ms Offlewirth’s treatise.

He could possibly continue if he had a snack to munch on, as he had often done in the past. But this wasn’t home, and there was no kitchen or fridge nearby to make himself a quick cheese sandwich. As he got up and walked back to his room, he pondered whether he should start packing some stuff at dinner to eat later at night.

* * *

24th September 1991

As Harry scribbled the date on top of the essay he had just finished, he realised that it was almost a month since he’d arrived at Hogwarts. Time had really flown by fast.

If he was being honest with himself, a small part of him still couldn’t believe that there was a Hogwarts, and that he was actually here and not at Stonewall High—the public school where the Dursleys were going to enrol him this year. In any case, the sheer work that he was being piled on with here was enough indication of the reality.

There were the classes obviously, and all the homework and studying he had to do for it. Now that he was on the Quidditch team, he also had to attend the team practices and the reserve practices that Wood scheduled. If that wasn’t enough, Wood had him to attend separate Seeker practices—held in secret, so as not to alert the other teams of his appointment—in order to get some additional playing experience that he was lacking. Now that Harry thought about it all, he wondered how in the blazes did he have any time left to fool around with Ron, which he did do.

Ron. Harry was glad to have made friends with the boy on the Express. He would have been lost here at Hogwarts without him, being entranced by whatever fantastical thing they encountered that day. As someone who had lived in the magical world all his life, Ron wasn’t as surprised by talking paintings and ghost professors as much as Harry was. It was just when Harry thought he was now used to the magical world that something new came into the picture throwing his assumptions out the window.

As for his classes; Harry was genuinely enjoying them. A childish part of him didn’t want to do any of the boring essays and homework that were required, instead wanting to spend his time studying new spells and doing actual magic. But he did understand their importance, so Harry did them.

Defence Against the Dark Arts was a subject that Harry had found interesting when he had glanced through the textbooks back at his home. He had been especially looking forward to it, even reading the entire textbook beforehand. Twice. Unfortunately, Professor Quirrell was far from a good teacher. Aside from a strong stench of garlic, the stuttering turbaned professor had not imparted him with anything new, leaving Harry utterly disappointed.

Still, Quirrell wasn’t the worst professor at Hogwarts. That position was reserved for Snape. Just the mention of the man turned Harry’s thoughts bitter. Snape had had it out for Harry before he had even set a foot inside the class. Even his Aunt Petunia hadn’t been that bitter towards him—at least she waited long enough for him to screw up or do something odd.    

If Snape’s taunts and insults weren’t enough, there was always Draco Malfoy and his cronies waiting just around the corner. Briefly, Harry wondered what would have happened if he had been sorted into Slytherin. Malfoy had been enemies with him before the sorting, and from the look Snape had given him during the feast, Harry assumed he had been too. Him getting sorted in Slytherin would have probably given them both a good shock. There wouldn’t have been any chance of making friends, Harry knew for sure.

That was what the best part of Hogwarts was for Harry; the new friends. Of course, there was Ron—always by his side, partnering with him in all the classes and helping him accommodate to the magical world. Then there were Fred and George, and all the other players on the Quidditch team. They were all a bit protective of him, treating him like they would a younger brother. Harry knew Ron would have felt irritated by it; he already was the little brother in his family. But Harry didn’t mind it. Not one bit.

His dormmates were all great guys. Seamus—with his heavy Irish accent and native slang—somehow paired well with Dean’s quick wit and quirky muggle references. They generally had their dorm rolling in laughter during the evenings. Neville was generally shy, preferring to be the spectator than the centre of attention. Yet, behind his nervousness and clumsy exterior, he had a dry sense of humour and solid dependability. Harry had been really surprised by his performance at the reserve practices, especially after his fall during that flying lesson. 

Mark was the one that Harry found a bit weird. Not in a bad way—he was just too confusing for Harry to properly understand. He was obviously pampered at home—the way he behaved evidenced that clearly, and Harry was well acquainted with pampered kids, having lived with Dudley all his life. Yet, he was not arrogant towards others. The incident during the flying lessons proved that very well—he was sure of himself and his abilities. Confident even. But he wasn’t a bully, and clearly hated the kind.

And it wasn’t as if his confidence was misplaced. Mark was clearly intelligent, and performed the best in many of the classes, seemingly with little to no effort. Although Harry knew of the late-night readings, Hermione Granger didn’t; she was slowly getting more and more irritated by the competition that Mark was offering her. Particularly because of the fact that the boy wasn’t interested in competing, just going about his day without giving her any thought.

Ron was the one enjoying all this the most—according to him, it was good that Granger had someone take her down a peg. Her repeated efforts to ‘help’ them during and outside their classes were condescending, and frankly, unwanted.

Ever since he had made onto the reserve team, Ron had been generally in great spirits. Harry knew that it had meant a lot for his friend. Back o the Express, Harry had gotten the impression that Ron was starved for attention, intimidated and overshadowed by his successful older brothers. Ever since Oliver had lavishly praised him for a suggestion about chasing strategies during one of the practices, Ron had been much more confident in himself.

Any thoughts of quidditch brought Harry’s mind straight to his new broom. The moment he had laid eyes on the brand-new Nimbus Two Thousand, Harry had fallen in love with it. Sleek and shiny, a polished mahogany handle, a long tail of neat, straight twigs, and its name written in gold at the top—it was perfection personified. If the appearance hadn’t been enough, the performance blew way Harry’s mind. In the air, it responded to his lightest touch. Compared to the school broom he had ridden when catching Neville’s Remembrall, Harry’s new Nimbus was at least three times as fast. It could be more, but Harry had no way of knowing. It was fast. Really, really fast. Within minutes of flying on it, he had become one with the broom. He wasn’t flying the broom; he was flying himself.

Harry glanced at the wall clock in the common room. There was still a couple of hours till curfew, and he was done with his homework already. He rolled up his essay for tomorrow and began packing up his things. Thoughts of his broom had given him an itch which only a good free-fly could cure.

* * *

13th October 1991

Mark collapsed on his bed, his muddy booted feet dangling out the edge. He was exhausted. The slow ache that travelled through his calves made him want to curse Oliver Wood and the day that madman decided to play Quidditch. He had worked them all like slaves with ten laps around the gigantic quidditch pitch along with the standard conditioning that they usually did on Saturdays. As Mark turned slightly to take a look at his roommates, an audible groan escaped his lips.

Neville was collapsed in a similar position as Mark and had already dozed off. Ron and Dean were already out of their boots and were stripping off their sweat-stained robes, talking animatedly about their practice.

“You guys look chipper,” said Mark. He mentally cursed the both of them for being physically fitter than him. Ron turned to look at him, a smug smirk on his face.

“Stop whining,” he said, “You’re lucky that you’re just on the reserve team for now. We only have practices once a week.”

“Then pray I never make it to the first team.”

“Tough chance there, mate. You’re one of the best chasers in Gryffindor. After the girls, that is. Wood’s not going to let you go that easily.” Turning to share a secretive smile with Dean—who was barely holding in his laughter—he added, “In any case, you have only yourself to blame for giving McGonagall the idea.”

Mark groaned audibly, while Dean just chuckled.

“Harry’s still out on the pitch you know,” said Dean. “And he has two more practices every week.”

“I pity the fool,” replied Mark in a fairly accurate imitation of Mr T. This was the last straw—Dean barely managed to land on his bed as he started laughing uncontrollably. Ron, visibly confused, looked at Mark for an explanation.

“Muggle reference,” Mark said waving off Ron’s concern. “Needs a half-hour of explanation that I’m too tired to provide right now.”

As he began to shake off the boots from his feet, Mark’s thoughts turned to the fantastical sport of Quidditch. He had to admit: as much as he hated Oliver Wood’s early morning practices and sweat-milking physical conditioning, he really liked flying. A lot. At first, it wasn’t that impressive—flying laps around the pitch on the basic school brooms left much to be desired. But when he tried riding one of the Cleansweep Sevens—belonging to their starting Chaser Alicia Spinnet—he’d really understood the potential freedom and speed that could be achieved on a broomstick.

The game itself was weird—to be fair, Mark found all sports slightly weird. It depended on the movements of four balls—a large football-sized red ball called Quaffle, two heavy, smaller sized black balls called Bludgers, and one walnut sized winged golden ball called the Snitch. Three large hoops stood high in the air on both sides of the pitch, each defended by that team’s Keeper. The three Chasers on each team had the aim of scoring the most goals by throwing the Quaffle through the hoops, with ten points for each goal. The Bludgers were enchanted balls; their aim was to pursue and unseat as many players as they could, and the two Beaters on each team had the duty of literally smacking them away with wooden bats and allowing the Chasers and Seeker to play unhindered. The Seeker had only one goal—find and catch the Snitch, earning their team a hundred-fifty points. And to top it all, there was no time restriction for the game; it only ended when the Snitch was caught. So yes—weird.

Despite the roaring popularity of the sport in the magical community, the number of people that turned up at the reserve try-outs was pitiful. Mark reckoned that the reserve spots must not be lucrative for anyone other than the most serious players. Being forced to participate, Mark had naturally dragged Neville along—to everyone’s surprise, including the boy’s own, Neville managed to snag himself a spot as a reserve Beater. Ron, desperate for a position on the team, became the second reserve Beater when he lost out the Keeper spot. In his defence, the other guy—a pompous second-year called Cormac McLaggen—had his own broom.

Mark and Dean were the reserve chasers. Dean, being more athletic of the two, was much quicker on the broom. Mark, on the other hand, had the better passing and shooting skills. Still, they were nowhere as good as the starting chasers—Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet were both excellent, with Katie Bell slowly catching up to their skill. As Professor McGonagall had mentioned, he did need a bit of training up before he could play an actual game.

His mind turned to Professor McGonagall who, despite her cruel sense of humour, was quickly becoming Mark’s favourite teacher. His detention had actually ended up being a one on one discussion with his professor on the underlying magical theory of transfiguration. Mark had been disappointed with the two thick books he’d borrowed from the library, and he had voiced it to her. She had suggested he check out the old issues of Transfiguration Today, a yearly magical journal on the subject.

That had been a goldmine for Mark. He found some of the answers to his questions in old issues from the 1920s, alongside issues of a now-discontinued German journal _Theorie der Magie_. Thankfully they had inbuilt translation charms for French and English, so Mark could read the articles despite not knowing the language. He had spent three days scouring through all of the issues, copying the articles which interested him using a charm he had gotten Fred and George to teach him.

One issue, in particular, had caught his eye; it was published in 1919 and written by a someone named G. T. Darnell. The reason Mark found it so peculiar was that the hypothetical equations that the author described in it were eerily similar to the electromagnetic equations given by James Clerk Maxwell—a non-magical scientist—in 1865.

No other article had made an attempt to use any mathematical formalism in any form, let alone use differential equations. The paper was apparently not that well received, as evidenced by the comments published underneath it since it had not matched with the results of any experiments that had been performed. Still, it was one that Mark found himself drawn to the most.

Of all the questions that the Hogwarts library answered, it didn’t manage to answer the one about Mark and his ability. At least not completely. He scoured through all the books—all that weren’t shelved in the restricted section—and it was in a book about memory charms that he found a hint.

In the section of defending one’s mind, there was a mention of something called Legilimency—a skill that one used to enter another’s mind, useful to ascertain exactly which memories were to be modified. Searching further, Mark had found more references to Legilimency. One said that it was the art of navigating someone’s mind and needed a spell to be performed, while another insisted that all that was required was great magical power and eye-contact.

None of this properly explained Mark’s ability; he certainly did not require a wand or eye-contact to read someone’s mind. Rebuffed by both Harry and Professor Snape, Mark decided to try and glean into the mind of every person at Hogwarts. What he found was fascinating.

Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick, for example, had lowered defences—something like a castle that isn’t being actively guarded. On the other hand, Professor Dumbledore, Professor Snape, and weirdly, Professor Quirrell had much stronger defences—Mark was sure he couldn’t get in without being noticed. Mark inferred from this that before the rumoured incident with the vampire, Quirrell must have been a really powerful and competent wizard.

None of the students had any such defences; none except Harry, who was some sort of an anomaly like Mark. That was still a mystery, unanswered by the books in the library. Perhaps there were more references in the restricted section, but Mark had no means to get in there. Not yet.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been reworked and elaborated. Notable additions are a short explanation of Quidditch rules (since I'm now trying to make the story accessible for the fandom blind) and Harry's sentiments towards his friends.
> 
> Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	11. Trolled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been reworked and elaborated. There were minor POV inconsistencies, and overall dialogue was improved.

31st October 1991

“She’s mental, that girl. No wonder she hasn’t got any friends— she drives them all away!” Ron remarked to Harry, as they were exiting the Charms classroom.

Harry was about to tell Ron that she wasn’t that bad when he was suddenly bumped on his shoulder by a hurrying figure. The tell-tale brown bushy hair that turned around the corner meant only one thing—Hermione had overheard Ron. A loud groan escaped Harry’s mouth; one mirrored at that exact instant by Mark from behind him.

“Come on mate,” said Mark. “Why did you have to be so rude?”

A slight guilty look appeared on Ron’s face. He turned towards Harry.

“You think she heard me?”

“Yeah, I think she heard you,” scoffed Harry.

“She’s probably been hearing that all her life,” added Mark, stuffing the books in his hand inside his bag. “It doesn’t hurt to be nice.”

Ron looked sufficiently embarrassed at this but still tried to defend himself.

“Well it doesn’t hurt her to stay out of my nose, does it?” he said, “Why does she always have to show off how smart she is. You’re smart too, but you don’t rub it in our faces.”

Mark just gave an audible sigh and walked off towards the Great Hall, silently shaking his head in disappointment. Somehow this had more effect on Ron than any words could have. Realising what he should do, Harry turned to Ron.

“I think you should apologize to her,” he said. At the look of growing horror on Ron’s face, he continued more firmly. “No, look— _it is_ your fault. She was just trying to be nice—just trying to help. What if it had been you trying to help her? With flying or something?”

At this Ron’s face dropped. “Alright, Fine. I’ll apologise to her in the next class. You’re right, I was being a git.”

Satisfied, Harry gave him a nod and started walking towards their next class. As much as Ron was prone to being thick at times, Harry couldn’t exactly blame him in this situation. Of course, Ron had been rude, and Harry did agree to the point that Mark had made earlier. But if he was being honest, then Hermione had practically called the situation upon herself. It had only been a matter of time.

Ever since the incident with the three-headed dog, the girl had kept an annoyingly close eye on the two of them, trying to ask about their whereabouts and plans every time they stepped out of the common room. Every. Single. Time.

If that wasn’t enough, she deliberately tried to pair herself with one of them—more often Ron than Harry—hovering over their attempts and giving repeated suggestions and unwanted advice. It had all culminated in today’s Charms class, where they were supposed to be learning to perform the Levitation Charm.

Ron, supposedly mispronouncing his spell, was unable to get his feather to float in the air. And Hermione had not been able to help herself.

 _“You’re saying it incorrectly. Its Wing-gar­-ium Levi-o-sa, so make the ‘gar’ nice and long,”_ she said, in a voice loud and clear for the whole class to hear. Ron, sufficiently embarrassed and irritated asked her to demonstrate if she was so confident. And so, she did, with a puffed chest and triumphant smile on her face.

Ron may have been rude, but he wasn’t exactly wrong.

As they entered the Transfiguration classroom, Harry was surprised to see Hermione missing. The girl was usually the earliest to arrive. Harry nudged Ron to go and sit on an empty seat—allowing Hermione to join him later so he could apologise. With a small groan, Ron grudgingly nodded and did so.

Harry tapped his fingers on his desk as he waited for Hermione to arrive. He only hoped the girl would take Ron’s apology seriously and not blow him off instead. But his anxiety fell in shambles when the class almost began and Hermione failed to show up. The last person to arrive was Mark who entered the class alongside Neville, munching on a half-eaten roll—he must have made a detour to the Great Hall for a quick snack. Seeing the empty seat beside Harry, he joined him. Before Harry could think any more about the absence of the bushy-haired girl, Professor McGonagall began to speak.

“As it is Halloween today, we will attempt to transfigure these pumpkins into Jack-o-Lanterns,” she said, pointing at a large pile of round orange pumpkins. “Each pair will work on one of these together, and I hope you have practised the spell for localised transformations that was taught to you _last week_.”

* * *

“Are you finished, dear?” Ginny heard her mother ask from the kitchen. As her dad was busy muttering a spell to set up the Jack-o-Lanterns, she decided to reply instead.

“Almost done, Mum.” Ginny’s Dad gave her a quick wink as he finished his spell, and picked up the next lantern to levitate near the fireplace.

Ginny smiled. Her dad was going to great lengths to ensure that everything was extra-grand this year, decorating the house just like they did the Great Hall at Hogwarts—conjured cobwebs, hanging bats and the aforementioned floating Jack-o-Lanterns—all so that she wouldn’t feel much lonely this Halloween.

It was the first time that she was the only kid at home, now that even Ron was off to Hogwarts. Her mother was insistent that she help in the kitchen—something Ginny didn’t like nor was particularly good at. Her dad, therefore, had asked that she assist him with the decorations before her mother could recruit her.

“And that’s done,” he said, dropping his hand back to his side. Ginny watched the marvellous looking pumpkins floating in the air, the candles inside giving out an eerie glow. One of the pumpkins was carved with a specific face—a very particular cut stood above its eye, shaped in a vertical zigzag pattern. Her dad must have noticed, for he immediately turned to her, a mischievous grin on his face.

“Anyone in particular dear?”

Ginny blushed. Ever since her trip to King’s Cross, she couldn’t seem to forget the boy with the black hair and dreamy green eyes. Her family had always teased her about her small crush on the-boy-who-lived. Ok, big crush. Alright, massive crush—so much that when she was seven, she had imagined their wedding at the garden outside the Burrow, their home.

In her years of dreaming about Harry Potter, Ginny actually managed to forget that he was a real boy somewhere. She had failed to recognise him that day—something she wanted to hit herself in the head for—when he had shyly asked her mother for directions to get on to Platform Nine-and-a-three-quarters. When Fred told them that the boy had been Harry Potter, Ginny had wanted to get onto the train and take a look at him properly—something that was quite immature for her in hindsight. It was like she had turned seven once again in an instant.

Once they had returned home and to her usual life at the Burrow, Ginny began to slowly forget about the incident. Or she would have if not for Ron’s letter home a week later, telling all about how he was no the best friends with Harry Potter. Ginny had never felt more jealous of her brother before.

“Come on now, dinner is ready,” came her mother’s voice, and Ginny was rescued from further embarrassment. Both father and daughter proceeded to the kitchen table, where a small, scrumptious feast awaited them.

“Ah Molly, it smells heavenly,” said Ginny’s dad. Her mother looked at him with amusement.

“It would have been ready sooner if I had _someone’s_ help,” she said, now looking pointedly at Ginny—who was trying to shrink under her gaze.

“She was helping me with the decorations,” her Dad replied, in a rather strong voice—something he didn’t do often. Before her mother could say anything in reply, he tried changing the subject.

“I hope the boys are enjoying their feasts at Hogwarts too.” He ladled on a spoonful of gravy, and Ginny watched her mother look with a small smile of pride. Nothing made her mother happy like someone appreciating her cooking.

“I hope Ron is not following in the twin’s footsteps,” said her mother, her brows furrowed in worry. “Their marks last year were not something to be proud of.”

Ron. As she began eating, Ginny thought about her youngest older brother. As much intelligent he was, it never really showed up in his work—simply because he didn’t like to study. She was sure that even at Hogwarts he was probably spending all his free time playing Chess or Exploding Snap.

But then, the marks that they got at Hogwarts weren’t really that important; they were there to just ensure a minimum qualification for the big exams and the grades that mattered—the OWLs and NEWTs. Ginny had learned about this little useful titbit when she’d overheard Charlie when he was studying for his NEWTs.

Her dad had told her about the grading system that muggle schools used and to be honest, the alphabetical scheme that they used seemed more logical to Ginny than the one the Ministry used for OWLs and NEWTs—O for outstanding, E for Exceeds Expectations, A for Acceptable, P for Poor, D for Dreadful, and T for Troll.

An errant thought entered her mind and Ginny suddenly laughed. Her mind had pictured Ron—his freckled face full of embarrassment—looking at their mother with puppy eyes as she held his OWL results, all the scores on it as Troll.

* * *

“Troll—Troll in the dungeons—thought you ought to know.”

Professor Quirrell let out a soft sigh as he slumped against the high table. Harry watched him sink to the floor, clearly fainted—moments before, he had come sprinting into the Great Hall in terror and ran towards Professor Dumbledore to deliver the message.

It must not have taken as long as Harry thought, but as soon as the whispered message—heard clearly by everyone in the Great Hall—was absorbed by the students, there was an uproar. All the merriment and high spirits of the Halloween feast was rapidly replaced by growing panic and terror; something that Harry realised was even creeping into his own heart. Before the avalanche of panic could tumble any further, Harry saw Professor Dumbledore get up and raise his wand in the air to shoot out loud purple firecrackers. The effect was immediate, and the Great Hall stood in silence once more.

“Prefects,” said Professor Dumbledore in a cool rumble, “you will lead your Houses back to the dormitories _immediately!_ ”

The chaos quickly turned into order, and Harry saw Percy take charge of the Gryffindors at once. He began to rapidly organise the first-years into a tight group before moving onto the older students. As they began moving towards Gryffindor tower, Harry wondered how a troll could get inside the castle—weren’t they supposed to be huge and nasty?

“No idea, mate,” said Ron when Harry voiced his question. “From what I know, they’re supposed to be really stupid,” he said. “Maybe Peeves let one in as a prank.”

Harry found himself nodding in agreement; Peeves the Poltergeist—a non-living entity who took great pride in creating chaos all around Hogwarts—was certainly capable of something like this. Harry’s thoughts were interrupted when he suddenly noticed that Ron was standing frozen, staring dead-fixed at Parvati Patil. It took a moment for Harry to realise why.

“Hermione,” they both said at the same time. “She doesn’t know about the troll,” Ron added, with an embarrassed face.

Earlier today, they both had overheard Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown talking about Hermione. Upset at Ron’s words, the girl had been crying in the girl’s bathroom all day. When she didn’t show up for the feast, Ron had felt really guilty—he hadn’t meant it to be this serious.  

“Come on,” said Harry, “let’s go then.”

The two of them ducked down and started moving in the opposite direction, mixing in a crowd of Hufflepuffs instead. After a while they ducked out again, this time slipping into a deserted corridor. As the coast was clear, the began to hurry down the corridor, making their way towards where they knew the girl’s bathroom was. As they turned around the corner, they heard a clatter of quick footsteps behind them; Ron quickly pulled Harry behind a nearby stone statue.

“Percy!” he hissed, and Harry cursed inwardly. He didn’t think the prefect would spot their absence so soon.

As the figure that had been following them came into their view, Harry saw that it wasn’t actually Percy. It was Snape, gliding swiftly over the stone floor as he hurried off to somewhere, disappearing around the corner within moments.

“Where—” Harry whispered, “Why isn’t he down in the dungeons with the other professors?”

“Should we follow?”

Harry looked at Ron for a moment before he nodded. Snape always seemed to act suspicious, and Harry did not like it. Clearly, he was up to something right now. They followed the potions professor, creeping along the corridor to avoid being detected. They noticed him walk towards a staircase; instead of going down towards the dungeon, Snape went up.

“He’s headed for the third floor,” Harry whispered. Ron, however, wasn’t paying attention.

“Do you smell that?” asked Ron. Confused Harry sniffed a bit, trying to find out what Ron was talking about. Within moments, a foul stench entered his nostrils—that of rotten dirty laundry. Before he could say anything to Ron, Harry heard a low grunting noise rumble through the corridor, followed by the shuffling footfalls of gigantic feet.

Ron’s face registered shock, and he pointed towards the end of the passage. It was unnecessary, for Harry was already staring at the twelve-foot tall troll, currently illuminated by a patch of moonlight shining through the tall castle window.

It had a lumpy body covered with dull, grey skin, standing on thick short legs with flat horned feet—a small bald head shaped like a coconut on top. Its arms were freakishly long—one of which was dragging a huge wooden club along the cold stone floor. Harry had never seen a troll before, neither had he ever imagined something looking like this. Yet, somehow, if he had to ask himself how a troll would look like, he would probably have described something just like this.

All of these thoughts were burning clearly in Harry’s mind—a mind that hadn’t yet absorbed the fact that the troll was here and not in the dungeons as they had thought. By the time he did, the troll shuffled inside a room on the right.

“Ron,” said Harry, pulling both him and his friend out of their stupor. “Do you think that door will hold?” Ron looked at where Harry was pointing—the door had a key in the lock.

“Good idea,” replied Ron, swallowing the lump in his throat. They began edging towards the doorway, creeping even slower than they had before. Harry silently prayed, hoping dearly that the troll would not come out of it. After what seemed like an eternity, they finally reached it—Harry leapt swiftly to grab the key, slamming the door shut. The key was turned, the room locked, and they both pumped their fists in the air.

“Yes!”  

Grinning wildly, the two of them began running up the corridor. Harry hoped that Snape hadn’t gone too far along; he wanted to see exactly where the man was headed at a time like this. But before they could even cross half the length of the corridor, a high petrified scream entered Harry’s ears. It was coming from inside the locked room, and it belonged to a girl.

“ _Aaaaaaaaah_ ”

He turned to look at Ron, whose face was mirroring his own growing realisation.

“Harry,” asked Ron. “Please tell me that wasn’t the girl’s bathroom that we locked.”

“That was the girl’s bathroom.”

“Harry,” asked Ron, his face pleading Harry to say anything else, “please tell me we didn’t lock the troll in with Hermione.”

“We locked the troll in with Hermione.”

They immediately ran back to the door, opened it and rushed inside. Hermione was inside, shrinking against the wall opposite. Her face was pale and gripped with shock, her body trembling with fear. The troll advancing on her slowly, its club knocking off all the sinks and taps from the walls.

“Distract,” said Harry, slightly surprising himself with the clarity of his mind. “We need to distract it.” Harry bent and picked up a fallen tap—surprisingly heavy—and flung it hard against a wall.

The resulting clatter was rather loud, and the troll stopped moving. It lumbered around in confusion, trying to find the source of the sudden noise. Finally, it noticed Harry, standing harmlessly near the doorway. It gave a grunt in anger before starting to move towards its new target, lifting the club to strike.

“Oi pea brain!”

Harry and the troll both turned—Hermione might also have turned, but Harry was preoccupied and probably didn’t notice—towards the source of the call. Somehow, unnoticed by Harry, Ron had snuck over to the other side of the bathroom. He waved around a thick metal pipe before throwing it straight at the troll. The troll—with its massive twelve-feet high body—didn’t seem to register the piece of plumbing attacking its person. It did, however, register Ron’s yell and adjusted its target once again.

Seizing the opportunity, Harry ran around the troll and started pulling Hermione towards the door. But Hermione was in even more shock now, refusing to budge from her place.

“Come on,” Harry beckoned, but she didn’t listen. Instead, she was watching something behind Harry. Harry turned just in time to see the troll give a primal roar before charging at Ron.

Shit. As Harry saw the troll corner Ron, he did the first thing that came to his mind—taking a great running leap, he jumped onto the back of the troll, managing to fasten his hands around its head.

Hurry realised he still had his wand in his hand—he used the opportunity to jab it straight into one of the troll’s huge nostrils. Sufficiently injured, the troll gave a loud cry. It twisted around in pain, its arm flailing the club it held—Harry hanged on to dear life and hoped the troll wouldn’t hit him or rip him off.

All of this was probably too much for Hermione to handle—she gave another shriek and sunk down to the floor in fright. Ron pulled out his wand and was struck with sudden inspiration.

_“Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa!”_

He had pronounced the spell correctly, and magic obeyed. The club that was in the troll’s hand flew into the air. Ron aimed it just over its head, then let it fall—it dropped with a sickening crack onto the troll’s head.

As the troll slowly began to sway, Harry realised its imminent fall and gave it a slight nudge forward—after removing the wand in its nose, of course. The troll fell flat on its face, its sheer momentum making the floor tremble.

The stunned silence that followed was broken after a few minutes when Hermione managed to find her voice again.

“Is it—is it dead?”

“I don’t think so,” said Harry. “Just knocked out, I reckon.” Looking at the wand in his hand, he began wiping it on the troll’s trousers.

Before anything else could be said, loud footsteps neared. Professor McGonagall came bursting into the room, her wand brandished in her hand, followed closely by Snape and then Quirrell. Quirrell became queasy at the sight of the troll and settled down on a nearby toilet. Snape bent over to check the troll.

“What on earth were you thinking of?” said Professor McGonagall in a furious voice. “It’s sheer luck you aren’t dead. Why are you not in your dormitories?”

Snape was looking calculatedly at first Harry, then Ron. Hermione suddenly spoke, so far unnoticed by the teachers.

“Please professor, they came looking for me.” Hermione had managed to stand up by now, though she was still trembling a little.

“I—I went looking for the troll because I—I thought I could deal with them on my own—since—since I had read all about them, you see.”

Ron looked gobsmacked, and Harry agreed with the reaction. _Hermione Granger, telling a downright lie to a teacher?_

“If they had not found me, I —” she continued, a shiver passing through her. “Harry and Ron tried to distract it at first. They—It didn’t work. So, Harry stuck his wand up its nose, and Ron managed to knock it out with its own club. It was about to finish me, professor. If they had waited to find someone —” she left her sentence hanging.

Harry and Ron tried to act as if all this _wasn’t_ news to them. Professor McGonagall looked at them for a moment, before turning back to Hermione.

“Miss Granger, how in the world could you think of tackling a mountain troll on your own? Fifteen points will be taken from Gryffindor for this,” she said, clearly disappointed. “If you’re not hurt, you’d better head to Gryffindor Tower. Students are finishing the feasts in their Houses.”

Nodding with her head down in shame, Hermione left without a word. Professor McGonagall then turned to the boys.

“Not many first-years could have taken on a full-grown mountain troll,” she said. “You each win Gryffindor fifteen points. _For sheer dumb luck._ ” She then motioned them to leave as well.

They walked back to Gryffindor tower in silence. As they neared the entrance, Ron spoke out.

“It was good of her to get us out of trouble like that.” Harry nodded. Ron continued, “Though we should have gotten more than thirty points. Fifteen once you take off Hermione’s.”

Harry snorted. Trust Ron to complain about that. Now outside the portrait of the Fat Lady, they spoke the password—"Pig Snout”—and entered.

The students were busy talking and eating the food that had been sent up for them, barely noticing their entrance. Hermione, however, was standing near the door, clearly waiting for them. The three of them just stood in embarrassed silence, unsure of what to say. Finally, still avoiding each other’ eyes, they somehow managed to speak at the exact same time.

“Thanks.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been reworked and elaborated. There were inconsistencies in Ginny's POV, and the dialogue was improved throughout.
> 
> Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	12. The Start of Something New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been extensively reworked and elaborated.

8th November 1991

“ _Communication Breakdown,_

_It’s always the same_

_I’m having a nervous breakdown_

_Drive me insane!_ ”

Neville rocked his head to the song as Mark shredded on his guitar. It would have been better if Mark wasn’t singing in a terrible off-key voice; then again, the upturned cauldron that Neville was banging with a stirring spoon wasn’t exactly a proper set of drums. It was doing its job—to provide a beat for Mark to play along, and allowing Neville to experience a freedom that he hadn’t been able to experience before.

Growing up under the watchful eye of his Gran, Neville hadn’t exactly had an opportunity to let loose.

Even when he had tried learning the piano at his Gran’s insistence, there was the shadow of his father looming above him. Of how Frank Longbottom was a natural at it. Of how Frank Longbottom was the pinnacle of dignity and grace during his performances—as well as everything else. Of course, Neville hadn’t been able to keep up—his clumsy fingers and apparent resistance to learning a delicate craft like playing the piano had crashed any dreams that his Gran had of him succeeding his father’s legacy.

No, growing up as he had, Neville had only managed to find his freedom amongst the plants. It was there that he was left alone; to explore what _he_ wanted to explore. To make mistakes without anyone looking over his shoulder, and be able to learn from them as per his will. To feel free.

It wasn’t until he met Mark and Fred and George that Neville came to the realisation that he hadn’t really experienced freedom. If the time he spent in his greenhouse was akin to roaming free on the mountainside, spending time with his friends was like jumping off from a cliff into a lake. That was what he had been missing—pure adrenaline. Even now, banging away with abandon on the cauldron in front of him was just that—full of adrenaline.

“Hey Gred, what’s taking you so long …”

Neville looked up at the interruption to see Fred standing gobsmacked at the door of their dormitory. George was standing just behind him, with a similarly awe-filled expression on his identical face. Their presence disturbed Neville’s rhythm, and Mark—who had been jumping on his bed while holding his guitar—stopped to look at once. Following Neville’s gaze, he too noticed the twins in the doorway.

“Hey mate,” asked Mark, swiping off the sweat on his forehead. “What’s up?”

“That was amazing,” George said in an awe-filled whisper. Fred nodded his head in agreement.

“Right in one Forge. Bloody brilliant,” said Fred. Neville saw that his eyes were twinkling—obviously thinking of something. As if struck by lightning, Fred turned back towards his twin.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Depends,” answered George. “Are _you_ thinking what I’m thinking?”

Neville watched in fascination as the twins managed to hold a silent conversation by their facial gestures alone.

“Cool,” said George, finally breaking the silence. He offered a fist bump to Fred, who promptly replied before turning to face Mark.

“We want you to teach us,” said Fred.

“Come again?” asked Mark, obviously confused. 

“We,” repeated Fred, pointing to himself and George, before pointing to Mark, “want you to teach us.” Pointing towards Mark’s guitar, he added, “to play like that.”

Neville found a thrill of adrenaline spike within him at the very thought. Learn how to actually play?

 “Very funny guys,” said Mark, looking away shyly. He must have thought the twins were pulling his leg.

“Oh, we’re completely serious,” said Fred.

“One hundred per cent,” said George.

“Count me in,” Neville said immediately. He wasn’t going to be left out of this. Not in a million years.

“Come on, guys,” said Mark, embarrassed. “I’m—I’m not that good.” An explosion of surprise followed his statement—one that Neville found himself joining in wholeheartedly.

“What!” “Are you kidding!” “Look who’s talking!”

“Okay, okay,” Mark called out, “calm down.”

The three of them quietened themselves grudgingly; a moment later, however, Fred broke the silence

“Don’t you dare say you’re not good,” he said, pointing towards the guitar in Mark’s hand. “Especially after what you were just doing!”

“All I meant,” said Mark, “was that I’m probably not qualified to teach.”

“Hey, you know more than us. That’s qualification enough,” Neville chipped in. George agreed.

“As long as you can make us play anything that’s not noise, it’s a win.”

“Okay,” said Mark, climbing down from the bed. “Okay, then.” He paced around a bit, obviously thinking about something. If Neville had to take a guess, his friend was already trying to work out the logistics and arrangements and all sorts of problems that they would and could likely face. Neville admired that in him; that he could quickly go from an embarrassed mess to a well-organized professional stance.

“Do you all want to learn the guitar or —” Mark turned towards them. Neville looked towards the twins; they seemed to be of the same opinion as him.

“It’s better if we play together as a band, I think,” answered George.

“Dibs on Drums,” Fred added immediately.

“That’s not fair,” said Neville. He wanted to play the drums.

“We can decide that later,” Mark interrupted. “First we will need drums. We don’t have any.”

“We can transfigure them. Old cauldrons will do nicely,” George suggested.

“Okay.” Mark sat down on his bed, his hand combing through his long hair. “We can’t practice here, or in your dorms. The others will kick us out of the tower”

“There are some abandoned classrooms on the fifth floor,” said Fred, leaning on Harry’s bed. “We can use those.”

“They’re sufficiently isolated as well,” George added. “We won’t be disturbing anyone with any noise that we make.”

Neville was surprised by the seemingly pre-prepared answers that the twins were supplying. Evidently, Mark was as well.

“You guys are really serious about this,” he observed.

“Of course,” said George.

“Alright then. One last thing. Are you sure about this?” Mark asked in a serious tone. Taking a deep breath, Neville decided to answer.

“Yes.”

“Good,” said Mark. “Because you three will be convincing Professor McGonagall to give us permission to practice.”

* * *

“Did you get it?”

Harry jerked up to see Ron looking at him with an expectant expression. Lost in his thoughts, Harry hadn’t realised that he had already made his way back to the common room. Ron must have sensed the confusion on his face as well.

“What’s the matter?” asked Ron, catapulting Harry back to the conversation he had witnessed just a few minutes before.

Given his nervousness for the upcoming Quidditch match against Slytherin, Hermione had suggested Harry borrow a copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ for some ‘light reading.’ Deciding to take her advice, Harry checked the book out a few days ago and had begun to give it a read. He was glad that he did; the book had a lot of tips and useful tidbits of information scattered throughout the generally fascinating history of the sport.

It had been earlier today when the three of them had been relaxing outside. Trying to catch some of the warmth of the scarce winter sun, Harry had been engrossed in reading the book when the unwanted shadow of Snape loomed past. Unable to bear seeing happy Gryffindors, he had confiscated Harry’s book under a likely made-up rule about not taking Library books outside castle premises.

Deciding to get his book back from the potions professor, Harry had gone to the staffroom when he had stumbled onto a horrible sight.

Only Snape and Filch were inside, with Snape holding his robes above his knees, exposing a bloody and mangled leg. Filch was handing the potions master bandages—from the looks of it they were changing the dressing of the wound.

If the sight wasn’t enough, it was what he had overheard that had Harry rooted to the spot outside the door.

“Blasted thing,” said Snape. “How is one supposed to watch out for all three heads at once?”

Harry had tried to leave then, but Snape noticed. After weakly asking for his book, Harry ran back to the common room before an enraged Snape could take off any house points from Gryffindor. After thinking about what he had just witnessed, Harry could come to only one conclusion—that Snape had tried to get past whatever thing that the three-headed dog was guarding on the third floor.

“No—he wouldn’t!” Hermione exclaimed when Harry tried to tell his friends of his suspicions.

On their trip to Diagon Alley, Hagrid had retrieved some mysterious grubby looking package from a high-security vault in Gringotts—on Professor Dumbledore’s orders. The three-headed dog on the third floor was guarding something. It made sense that these two were the same thing—the thing that Snape had tried to steal at Halloween. Harry and Ron had both seen the potions master make his way to the third floor instead of the dungeons that day; in fact, Harry was willing to bet his broomstick that Snape had probably even let the troll in himself as a perfect distraction. It all made perfect sense.

Ron was quick to share Harry’s opinion, but unfortunately, Hermione was not as receptive.

“Look, Harry. I know he’s not a nice person —” she began, only to be interrupted by a loud snort from Ron. Giving him a pointed look, she continued unfazed. “—but he wouldn’t try and steal something Dumbledore was keeping safe.”

“Hermione, it’s like you believe all the teachers are saints or something,” Ron retorted. “Harry’s right. I wouldn’t put anything past Snape.”  Scrunching his eyebrows, he looked at Harry. “But what is he after? What is that dog guarding?”

Harry just shrugged. The same question had been eating at him ever since he returned from the staffroom. What was so valuable that Snape would risk going against Dumbledore? Gold? Jewels?

He was still occupied with these thoughts when he retired to his dorm that night. When he entered the room, he noticed Mark and Neville talking in hushed tones. On Mark’s bed were two guitars—only, one of them looked odd, with a longer neck and just four strings. He had never seen this one before.

“What’s that one?” Harry asked, pointing to the unfamiliar instrument. “Never seen that before. Is it new?” Mark turned to look at where Harry was pointing.

“That’s a bass. You use it to play lower frequencies—deeper sound,” said Mark. “It isn’t new actually—never had a reason for taking it out of the bag until now. It was my dad’s—he used to play on it when he was younger.”

Though the answer satisfied Harry’s curiosity, it felt like a punch to the gut. His face fell, and Mark noticed.

“You alright mate?” asked Mark, worry etched on his face. Neville had a similar look on his face.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” lied Harry, trying to fake a smile. He quickly turned around and changed into his pyjamas. It was only after he rested his head on his pillow and drawn his blanket closer to himself that Harry finally let his emotions flow. The tears trickled off his face as he silently sobbed, the suppressed thoughts of his parents surfaced themselves.

He had never even thought about any of his father’s old belongings, let alone see any. Ever since his birthday, Harry had been so happy with everything that he had gained that he hadn’t had any chance to think of what he’d lost. He was a wizard, yes. But he was still an orphan. His parents weren’t anything like what the Dursley’s had told him all his life. But they were still dead. They had left him enough money to do his schooling, but he had nothing to remember them by. Mark said he didn’t really have any reason to get the guitar out of the bag until today; if Harry was in his place, he would have taken it out every day.

As he sniffed away his tears, Harry tried thinking about something else. His mind wandered to the Quidditch match tomorrow. He wasn’t feeling confident at all—what if ended up making a fool of himself? He had no experience in a real match, and now he would be facing off against Slytherin, who had won the Quidditch Cup for the past three years in a row. They would probably laugh at him for even attempting to play. He was not a real Quidditch player; not like his father had been.

After Professor McGonagall had told him about his father, Harry had gone to the trophy room to check. Indeed, James Potter had been a chaser in the Gryffindor team, even being the captain since his fifth year. If that wasn’t enough, Gryffindor had won the Quidditch cup four times while he played—three under his captainship. Harry could never hope to live up to that.

* * *

9th November 1991

“Ok, men,” Oliver Wood said, facing his team in the locker room.

“And women,” interrupted Angelina. Mark chuckled along with the rest of the team as he fastened the belt on his scarlet Quidditch robe.

“Yes, and women,” Oliver agreed. “This is the big one. This is Slytherin.”

“The one we’ve all been waiting for,” chimed in the twins. Mark raised his eyebrows in surprise, and Alicia leaned in to explain.

“They know Oliver’s speech by heart,” she whispered. “He’s made the same one for the past two years.”

“Shut it you two,” snapped Oliver. Taking a deep breath, he continued. “This is by far the best team assembled in years. We,” he said, glaring at the team. “Are going to win.”

The rest of the team nodded nervously in response. Mark couldn’t help but credit Wood for his leadership and intimidation skills.

“All right then,” said Oliver, clapping Harry’s back. “Good luck.” Wood then turned to the reserves. “Longbottom, Weasley,” he began, and was interrupted by two “Yes” from Fred and George.

“No, not you two,” he clarified, shooing them out of the locker room. Turning to Ron and Neville, he continued. “Slytherins will be focusing on the Seekers and Chasers, so both of you can head to the stands.” Mark watched as they gave reluctant nods before exiting the locker room.

Though Oliver gave them a plausible reason, it wasn’t exactly unexpected. None of the reserves were actually ready to substitute anyone in the game. The only reason Mark and Dean weren’t sent out too was that there was a higher chance of a chaser getting injured, and that there were two other players to carry the game in case that happened.

In all honesty, Mark wasn’t sure to be happy or not; on one hand, there was a minuscule chance that he might get a chance to play—something he probably wouldn’t have enjoyed a few weeks ago. On the other hand, if he did get to substitute one of the players, there was the looming fear of actually having to carry the hopes and tensions of the entire Gryffindor House. Another thing the past few weeks had taught Mark—people took Quidditch way more seriously than he had ever imagined.

Steeling himself for whatever the match might bring, Mark picked up the broom issued to him—an old Cleansweep 3, the fastest broom in the school broom shed—and walked out into the field. He made his way towards the bench with the other reserves, while the starting team gathered around Oliver in the middle of the pitch. Madam Hooch was refereeing today, and she kicked off the match with a loud whistle blast. The match had begun.

Mark saw the team take off, and the Quaffle being passed by Angelina. Alicia caught it with a low swoop and passed it again after a few moments. Mark tried his best to keep a track of the red ball streaking across the field, his gaze only seconds ahead of the wonderful commentary by Lee Jordan.

“And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelia Johnson—what an excellent chaser, rather attractive, too —”

“JORDAN!”

“Sorry, Professor.”

Mark snorted. Trust Lee to say something like that when Professor McGonagall was sitting beside him. Keeping his attention fixed on the Quaffle, Mark watched as the red ball moved in a complicated path before ending up back in Angelina’s hand before she feigned and scored.

A hearty cheer ran through the Gryffindor stands, one that Mark joined in heartily. It had been one spectacular play, and he hoped he could pull it off someday. The game continued uninterrupted, and Mark tried studying the passes between Alicia and Katie as the manoeuvred through the Slytherin defences. His mind was working in overdrive; trying to track the Quaffle, the Gryffindor Chasers, and the Slytherin Chasers all at once, while at the same time making mental notes and hypothesis for whatever plays the two teams were employing.

A few minutes later, however, his attention was drawn away by something; he suddenly realised that the crowd had gone silent. The Snitch had been spotted. Mark’s eyes were then immediately drawn towards Harry, who was speeding on his Nimbus towards the Slytherin Chasers, who had all momentarily stopped playing to watch the Seekers.

‘Idiots,’ thought Mark. Given that the players were distracted by the Snitch, it was actually the perfect time to try and score, or at least do something productive rather than float around like dumb ducks. It looked like the Slytherin Captain Flint was struck by the same idea, for he zoomed straight at Harry and slammed into him. The impact through Harry completely off course, and Mark watched as the scrawny boy tried to get his spinning broom back under control. The Gryffindors obviously called for foul, which Madam Hooch promptly awarded; yet the damage was done. Flint had succeeded in foiling Harry, who had now lost track of the Snitch.

This is what Oliver must have referred to when he had told them that the Slytherins ‘play dirty.’ Try and win at all costs, even if it meant potentially injuring the players on the other side. Still, the whole thing had a silver lining. The foul had awarded Gryffindor a penalty shot which Alicia scored with superb speed and accuracy. Mark tried and studied her fly-up with interest—shooting penalties was a skill he was particularly interested in mastering someday.

As Mark’s eyes flittered towards Harry for a cursory check, he was met with an odd sight. Harry seemed to be jumping up and down on his broom, which was bucking like a rodeo bull.

‘What does he think he’s doing?’ thought Mark as he quickly borrowed Dean’s binoculars. Peering through them, he focused on Harry and found him completely alright. Whatever it was, he seemed to have missed it. Mark was about to lower the binoculars when he suddenly saw an expression of immense focus appear on Harry’s face. Mark’s gaze stayed only slightly ahead of Harry as the Seeker leaned on his broom and dived almost vertically towards the ground. The moment a glint of gold entered Mark’s eye he gave a loud cheer—Harry immediately captured the Snitch, ending the match in favour of Gryffindor two-hundred to sixty. They had won.

* * *

“How do you know about Fluffy?” asked Hagrid.

“ _Fluffy?_ ” Hermione exclaimed in surprise with Ron. That massive killer three-headed dog was named _Fluffy_?

Today’s match against Slytherin was one of the scariest things Hermione had ever witnessed, and that was when she was sitting in the stands. She seriously had no idea how Harry even managed to stay up so high on a broom, never mind zoom around like a madman. And that was before his broom had been cursed.

Hermione and Ron had been cheering their team from the Gryffindor stand when Harry began to buck on his broom. When Hagrid mentioned that the Nimbus was too high quality to malfunction like this, Hermione settled on the next explanation—that someone was deliberately tampering with it. Quickly grabbing a pair of binoculars, she began scanning everyone in sight, and within minutes found the culprit—Professor Snape, standing still, quietly muttering something as he kept his gaze focused on Harry.

Not wanting to waste a single moment, Hermione hurried over to where Profesor Snape was and quietly used the Bluebell Flame charm on his robes, which quickly caught fire. It was enough, for when the potions master spotted his robes in flames, he stumbled around in a panic, knocking over several people around him, including the turbaned Profesor Quirrell. But most importantly, his eye contact was broken, and the jinx lifted—Harry was free to ride his broom safely again.

Once the match had finished, the three of them—after informing Harry of the fact that Professor Snape had cursed his broom—had made their way to Hagrid’s hut for a cup of tea. They told their friend about today’s events, and when Hagrid dismissed their accusations outright, Harry had brought up the subject of the three-headed dog and how Professor Snape had tried to get by it on the night of Halloween.

“Yeah—he’s mine,” said Hagrid. “I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the —”

“Yes?” said Harry eagerly, encouraging Hagrid to spill the secret.

“It’s none of yer business. That’s top-secret,” Hagrid said in a stern voice.

“But what about Snape—”

“Rubbish. Professor Snape is a Hogwarts teacher, and Professor Dumbledore trusts ‘im” Hagrid said again.

“But then why did he try to kill Harry?” cried Hermione. “I know a jinx when I see one, and Snape was not breaking eye contact!”

“I’m tellin’ yeh, yer wrong!” Hagrid snapped. “Harry’s broom may have been jinxed, but it sure wasn’t Snape. He wouldn’t try to kill a student!” he said with confidence.

“Now you kids listen to me, all three of yeh. Don’t meddle in things that don’ concern yeh. You better forget that dog, an’ forget wondering bout what it’s guardin’, for that’s between Professor Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel —” he caught himself, but the cat was already out of the bag.

“Ha! So, there is a Nicolas Flamel involved, isn’t there?”

* * *

“Let me get this straight,” said Professor McGonagall, looking at the four of them with the most flabbergasting expression Mark had ever seen on her face. “You want my permission to officially make a racket in one of the empty classrooms?”

“To practice music, Professor,” clarified Fred in his usual cheery tone. Professor McGonagall stared at them for a moment before she narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

“This isn’t some roundabout way of setting up some elaborate prank, is it?” she asked.

“Not at all, Professor. We just want to learn to play some instruments,” answered George. “After all, the pursuit of knowledge is something you can surely understand, can’t you Professor?”

“And why exactly can’t you do that in the Hogwarts choir, Mr Weasley?”

“Well —”

“The Hogwarts choir doesn’t really involve guitars and drums, Professor,” said Neville.

“It’s a bit old fashioned,” said George.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Fred quickly chipped in. “We just want to make the music of the times.”

Mark watched in amusement as Professor McGonagall tried to process all this information. He couldn’t exactly blame her scepticism; when the Weasley twins approach you with a seemingly sincere request, you can’t help but be sceptical. Fred—trying to be his usual smooth self—tried to convince her another way.

“Think if the Weird Sisters could have begun playing while they were at Hogwarts, Professor,” he said. “Obviously we aren’t anywhere near as good —”

“We don’t actually know how to play,” muttered Neville, earning him a small kick on the leg.

“— But we could be …” Fred finished.

Professor McGonagall looked at the three of them with disbelief. Mark, standing behind, earned just a cursory look. Mark watched her take a deep breath before finally deciding to reply.

“Mr Longbottom, your grandmother has already written to me about her worries regarding your academic performance,” said Professor McGonagall. Neville’s face fell, reverting back to the nervous shell he had been in when Mark met him on the Express.

“I’ve assured her that your reports so far are up to the mark,” continued Professor McGonagall, “but this could potentially put that in jeopardy.”

Pushing her square spectacles further up her nose, she then turned towards the twins.

“As for you Mr Weasleys,” she said. “You are both already a part of the Quidditch team, and you have your classes to study for. When will you find time to do this?”

George lowered his head at that, while Fred seemed to want to object. Professor McGonagall, however, didn’t give him a chance.

“Your mother has already written to me that she fears for your grades. I understand that this is something you wish to pursue seriously, but as your Head of House, it —”

Mark decided to interrupt and cleared his throat.

“Yes, Mr Smith?”

“Just two words, professor. _Fewer Pranks._ ”

“Permission granted,” came the immediate reply.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been extensively reworked and elaborated. There were inconsistencies in POV in the first segment, which I converted to Neville's alone. Other things were also changed, like including a brief description of Hermione finding out Snape jinxing Harry's broom.
> 
> Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	13. A Magical Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been extensively reworked and elaborated.

23rd December 1991

Mark’s breath condensed on the windowpane as he stared out at the urban landscape of London that was zooming past him. Now that the Christmas break had begun, he was eager to return home to his Dad.

That was what his mind had been occupied with since yesterday—the question of his Dad’s health. They had exchanged quite a few letters over the past four months, but his Dad hadn’t been exactly forthcoming about the progress of the treatments. Knowing his Dad, that could imply anything from a miraculous recovery to a sudden deterioration of his condition. And all that did was make Mark think of the worst.

Frankly, it wasn’t as if he was mentally unprepared for it. On the contrary, Mark had a propensity to overthink the issue. Even now, staring out a fogged window on the Hogwarts Express, his mind performed these random thought experiments. Imagined if his Dad was dead. Imagined the things that his twelve-year-old self would have to manage. Imagined the funeral and imagined his life afterwards. And when his consciousness would finally catch on to this errant train of thought, dismissing it off unceremoniously.

Trying to avoid this predicament, Mark turned his musings to his friends. Along with him and Neville, most of the other students were headed home for the break. Fred and George, along with Percy and Ron, were staying in the castle for the break as their parents had gone to visit their older brother Charlie in Romania. Harry was also staying over for the break, and from what Mark could figure out, he wasn’t that fond of the people with whom he lived. Mark hoped that Harry would appreciate the present he’d gotten him—he had been quite specific when he asked his Dad to send the package via the owl post.

Harry had been another point of contemplation that Mark found himself often pondering about. Ever since he had read about legilimency, Mark had a fair idea that Harry was some kind of Occlumens—someone who had could defend against legilimency. In his curiosity to find out more, he found himself making repeated attempts to subtly penetrate his classmate’s defences. But, he couldn’t. Once, he’d even made an uncontrolled attempt—accidently, of course. Even that didn’t work. Whatever Harry was, he wasn’t a regular Occlumens. Just like Mark, he was an anomaly—albeit of a different kind.

As the Express began to pull into the platform, Mark turned away from the window and got up. Neville—stirred awake due to the slowing train—joined him in getting their luggage out of the carriage. Once he was out on the cold platform, Mark scanned around for any sign of his Dad. Finding none, he turned back towards Neville—still a bit sleepy—and bid him goodbye. Slinging the large duffel bag over his shoulder, Mark then briskly walked out of the barrier, spotting Edwin standing near a newspaper stand immediately. The old man gave him a sly smile as Mark neared him.

“Hey kiddo,” said Edwin as he lowered the newspaper in his hand. “You’ve grown.”

“Nice to see you too,” Mark said with a smirk, moving in to give Edwin a one-armed hug. As they began moving towards the car park, Mark spoke out the question on his mind.

“How is he?”

“Good,” replied Edwin. As Mark gave him a sceptical look, he reaffirmed his statement. “No, I really mean it. John’s doing good—he’s just been a bit tired lately.” As Mark put his duffel in the boot, Edwin continued, “Actually, he was planning on coming with me today. But I insisted that he take some rest. Maybe even have a welcoming party for you,” he added with a quick wink.

“That’s good to hear,” said Mark. “The treatments —?”

“All as expected,” Edwin replied as he sat in the old Ford Escort with Mark. As they pulled out of the car park—and out of earshot—Edwin began his questions.

“So, how was magic school?”

Mark rolled his eyes as he slumped back in his seat. Trust Edwin to make Hogwarts sound like a—well wherever circus magicians learned their stuff.

“Great. A bit better than I had expected,” replied Mark. “And before you ask—no, they haven’t taught us any card tricks. Yet.”

“You’ve joined a sports team of some sort?” Edwin asked after chuckling. “You mentioned something in your letter. Kiddish—Quadish—?”

“Kwi-ditch,” corrected Mark.

“Huh. Sounds like some kind of French bread,” Edwin remarked. “So, you’re on a school team?”

“Reserve team for now. The starting team is too good to consider any amateurs like us,” said Mark. “Harry’s the only first-year on the main team—He’s the Seeker.”

“Seeker is the one who catches the golden ball, right?”

“Yes. It’s called a Snitch,” replied Mark. “You know, I’m pretty sure you would enjoy watching it,” he said after a moment.

“A game in mid-air with flying brooms and complicated rules? Sign me up for a ticket,” said Edwin. “Didn’t you say the game doesn’t end unless the—the Snitch is caught?”

“Yes. There’s no other way to end the game.”

“What if no one catches it? There has to be a time limit, right?”

“Nope. No time limit,” replied Mark. “I think the longest recorded game had lasted nearly three months or something. They had to sub in players every few hours.”

-

-

“So, Mark, how was Hogwarts? What all did you learn?”

Mark looked up from his plate at the question, a slight smirk on his face. He’d been wondering how long his Dad would take to ask that question. And a quick glance at the wall clock revealed the answer to be twenty-seven minutes.

“It’s been great,” replied Mark. “The teachers are great—the classes are great. The castle—it’s actually a real castle, by the way—it’s also great.” After taking another bite from his plate, he continued, “We haven’t gotten the chance to learn a lot of spells yet. It’s mostly basal theory and all the implicit etiquettes and precautions about magic—things which we may experiment with and things we are explicitly forbidden to dabble around in.”

“What are all your subjects again?” asked Edwin, taking a sip of wine from his glass. Mark mirrored him with his own glass of water before replying.

“Well, there’s History—interesting subject, boring teacher,” said Mark. “Then there’s Herbology. It’s like Latin and botany and abstract art all mixed together —”

“Oof,” remarked his Dad. Those were few of the things that Mark was definitely not good at.

“Exactly,” said Mark. “But I have a secret weapon—my new friend Neville Longbottom. He’s an utter genius in the subject. Been casually practising Herbology in his greenhouse for years.”

“That’s good to hear,” said his Dad. “Friends is good. You mentioned a couple more—the ones you’re practising with?”

“George and Fred,” Mark supplied. “They’re third-years. Brilliant, the two of them. Though they’ve convinced themselves that I can teach them music.”

“Well, to be frank, you _are_ a pretty good guitar player, Mark,” said Edwin. “Certainly better than whatever horrible cacophony your old man here produces with it,” he added with a chuckle.

“I will not respond to that since I agree with the underlying sentiment, thank you,” replied Mark’s Dad. Turning to Mark he continued. “You said something about taking your Strat back?”

“Yes,” Mark replied, “We need more instruments if we want to practice seriously. Drums were easy to transfigure, but guitars aren’t. We asked Professor McGonagall to help us, but she just encouraged us to experiment ourselves.”

“That is quite teacher-like of her,” remarked Edwin. “From what you and John have told me, she sounds like an interesting woman. It’s a pity I didn’t get to meet her.”

“Why Edwin, I didn’t know you were interested in my teachers,” said Mark, trying to suppress his laughter. “She’s quite a bit older than you, you know.”

A brief silence followed before Edwin spluttered in mock outrage.

“Why you—little rascal. Just wait until dinner is finished—you’ll see”

“Why don’t you tell us about your other subjects till then,” interrupted Mark’s Dad. Turning to Mark he gave him a quick wink and mouthed, ‘Good one.’

“Well, Professor Snape taught us to make boil curing and boil causing potions,” said Mark taking his Dad’s cue. “Also, some basic herbicide potions. Basically, we’re being taught how all the different ingredients and techniques interact.” Mark took a few bites as he surreptitiously watched Edwin before continuing.

“In Charms, we learned some base theory along with the Lumos and Levitation Charms. It’s actually quite interesting how the spells work, you know. We have to know the proper incantation, the correct spell movement, and the proper power draw pattern. We also need to properly visualize the effect the spell would have, and how to manipulate the power draw to alter the effects accordingly. Transfiguration is actually my favourite subject right now, you know. I think that with changing the power draw pattern I can actually —”

Unbeknownst to Mark, his Dad and Edwin shared a look. Yes, Mark was definitely enjoying Hogwarts.

* * *

25th December 1991

“What did you expect, turnips?”

Harry turned to look at Ron—who was already engrossed in his own pile of presents—before looking back at the incredible sight that lay in front of him. A small pile of colourfully wrapped presents, all with his name on them. The sight might not have been as impressive to some other kid his age. After all, it was Christmas day today—the day everyone usually received presents.

But it was different for Harry. He had not been expecting any presents because—well, because he hadn’t gotten any presents for Christmas before. Not real ones anyway. Sure, Aunt Petunia had handed him a rusty coat hanger, or a flaky old leather belt that had once graced Dudley’s waist. But just because they had been handed out on Christmas didn’t make them any less of hand-me-downs. If he was being honest, Aunt Petunia had probably considered wrapping them up to see the look of disappointment on Harry’s face before dismissing it as a waste of good paper. So, it was but natural for Harry to not expect any presents this year.

But then, this year was different, wasn’t it? He wasn’t at the Dursleys any more. He was a wizard, studying in the wonderful castle of Hogwarts. He had friends—real friends, who had cared enough about him to get him presents. A large pang of guilt spread through Harry’s chest as he realised how much of a lousy friend _he_ had been; he hadn’t gotten anything for any of his friends. It was something he had never had to consider before, not being used to having real friends. But that was no excuse; he needed to find some way to rectify the situation and show his gratitude to his newfound friends.

Deciding to head to the bathroom before looking at his presents, Harry slipped off his bed. These last few days at Hogwarts had been the best ones yet—certainly the best Christmas he had ever had. As all the other first-years had gone home for the holidays, it was only Ron and him occupying their dorms. The rest of Gryffindor tower was similarly empty; which meant that Harry and Ron could lounge around in the common room, toasting all sorts of food on the fireplace and spending their time playing Wizard’s chess.

It was an interesting take on the game, to say the least. The rules were identical to chess, except for the fact that the chessmen were alive and had to be verbally ordered around the board. Being an inexperienced player, this meant that the chessmen kept shouting contradictory advice to Harry, confusing him at times. Other times—when he was confident about his move—the chessmen would refuse to follow his orders. On top of it, if a piece was captured, the attacking piece would physically knock out the other piece—often breaking it into pieces. All in all, it was a confusing and barbaric game; exactly the kind that Ron and he enjoyed playing.

Returning back to his bed, Harry turned his attention to the pile of presents. Controlling his impatience, he neatly opened the one on top. It was beautifully whittled wooden flute from Hagrid. Feeling the grain beneath his fingers, Harry raised it to his lips before blowing on it. A weird sound emerged—something in the back of his mind found it similar to Hedwig’s screeches.

Feeling satisfied, Harry moved to the next thing on the pile. It was a plain envelope, one that Harry recognised as one of Aunt Petunia’s cheap envelopes from the third drawer—reserved specifically for unimportant mail. Inside was a note.

_We received your message and enclose your Christmas present. From Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia._

“That’s friendly,” said Harry as his eyes found a fifty pence piece taped to the bottom of the note. His sudden comment must have drawn Ron’s attention, for Ron quickly began to examine the piece of currency.

“This is muggle money?” he said, examining the coin. “ _Weird._ ”

“Keep it,” Harry said, stifling a laugh as Ron’s face lit up. Shaking his head, he moved on to the next parcel. It was rather large and lumpy, wrapped in inexpensive yet elegant paper.

“Tha’ ones from ma’ mum,” Ron said interrupting Harry’s observation. Swallowing the chocolate frog in his mouth—probably two—he spoke again, this time more clearly. “That one’s from my mum. I—I told her you weren’t expecting many presents and—oh no,” he groaned, “she’s made you a Weasley sweater.”

Harry had by now opened the parcel to reveal a thick hand-knitted sweater in emerald green wrapped around a large box of homemade fudge.

“She makes one every year for all of us,” said Ron, hurriedly unwrapping a similar package from his pile, “and mine’s always maroon.”

“That’s—that’s quite nice of her,” said Harry, burying the small torrent of emotions in his chest. Trying to distract himself, he opened up the fudge—it was very tasty.

Turning his attention to the next parcel, Harry found another article of clothing in it. It was a black T-shirt, with AC/DC printed on the front. Harry laughed at it since Mark had clearly chosen a band which had a lightning bolt symbol like his scar. He promised himself to get Mark something good later. Only two parcels were left now. The first was from Hermione, containing a large box of chocolate frogs. A quick glance at Ron’s pile showed that she had gotten both of them identical gifts. Harry snorted as he imagined Hermione’s reaction if he told her about Ron eating two chocolate frogs at once. Popping one in his mouth, Harry now looked at the last parcel.

As Harry picked it up, he found it light to the touch. Unwrapping it, something fluid and silvery slithered to the floor. Ron, who had been eating a box of candy, got a look of awe on his face.

“I’ve heard of those but never thought I’d see one. They’re supposed to be really rare.” Ron said slowly.

“What is it?” Harry asked as he picked it up.

“I think— put it on. I think it is an invisibility cloak.” Confused, Harry donned the cloak and heard Ron gasp again. “I was right!” exclaimed Ron. “Look! Look below!”

Harry looked down and just as his friend had said, found himself invisible. He looked in the mirror, then pulled the hood of the cloak. He disappeared completely from view.

“Look there’s a note!”

Harry turned towards the floor where Ron was pointing. The piece of parchment must have fluttered downwards when Harry unfurled the cloak. The note was written in a loopy handwriting—one that Harry had never seen before.

_Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you._

_Use it well._

_A Very Merry Christmas to you._

* * *

“Hey, champ.”

Mark turned away from the window to look at his Dad standing in the doorway. His lips curled into a small smile as his Dad sat beside him on his bed. There was a moment of silence as Mark ran his fingers over the wand in his hand.

“What’s on your mind?” his Dad asked finally. Mark just shook his head absently.

“Nothing,” said Mark, trying to look anywhere else but his Dad. “Just—just all this. Magic. Hogwarts. Me being a wizard.” He took a pause, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Just—what mum would have thought about all of this. About what I can do. All of —”

“Your mum would have been proud of you,” his Dad interrupted, clapping Mark firmly on his shoulder. “She would have been proud of you, and not because of your abilities. She would have been proud of how you have grown up to be—as a person. That was the thing she wanted. For you to grow up to be a good man.”

“And am I that? A good man?” Mark turned to look at his Dad, who took a deep breath before replying.

“Yes. And do you know why?” asked his Dad. “Because you ask that question.”

Mark snorted slightly as he wiped off the tear in his eye. As much as he tried denying them, the thoughts of his mother threatened to invade his mind on some days. And today was one of them—after all, it was Christmas day, and twelve years ago his mother had passed away holding her infant son in her arms. It wasn’t exactly Mark’s favourite holiday.

Still, there was some good. He still had his Dad with him. After all, his dad had suffered from a loss much greater than his own; it wasn’t as if Mark had memories of his mother to draw upon. He remembered almost nothing of her.

Over the years, the two of them had learned to live without Sarah Smith. They played together, cooked together, did the chores together. Had fun together. Even though Mark’s Dad had been diagnosed with leukaemia, John had always ensured that they had some fun in their life.

Edwin had helped, becoming an honorary uncle to Mark, taking care of him when his Dad was getting his treatments. He was a sold pillar of support in their lives, an irreplaceable presence, providing love and guidance to two men who would have probably lost their way without him. It was Edwin who had taken Mark to the pool and taught him to swim; it was Edwin who had held Mark steady when he was learning to ride his bicycle.

So, it wasn’t as if Mark had felt anything missing in his life—neither materialistically nor emotionally. He had—was having—a happy childhood, despite the absence of his mother. But there was an errant thought that popped in now and again. How would his life had been—how different would it all have been—if she had been alive.

This curiosity had plagued Mark, especially ever since his ability had awakened. It was partly academic, partly something else. Questions about her nature—about what his mother’s reaction would have been to all of it. What she thought about it. What she would have wanted him to do with it.

He had asked Edwin about her, trying to find out more about how she was a person. Having him recount incidents about her, then gleaning him to experience them himself. Of course, the best person to do this with was his Dad, but Mark had never considered it before. It was obvious that there was a lot of pain and sorrow associated with the memories, and he didn’t want his Dad to relive them. Or maybe it was just him who didn’t want to experience it. He didn’t think he could handle it—not until today, that is.

Mark turned back to look at his Dad, a hand slipping to the silver locket hanging by his neck—a memory of his mother. Looking his Dad in the eye, Mark spoke slowly.

“Dad, will you tell me about her?” said Mark slowly, his eyes unwavering. “About how—how she was?” After a small pause, he added in a small voice. ”I think I’m ready.”

Mark’s dad—who had raised his eyebrows in surprise—took a deep breath as he nodded in understanding. Looking at his son, he finally spoke in a proud tone.

“Yes, son. I will.”

* * *

28th December 1991

“Back again, Harry?”

Harry froze. He looked behind him slowly, only to see Professor Dumbledore sitting on one of the desks by the wall. In his hurry to find his way back to this classroom, he must have somehow missed the venerable wizard entirely.

“I didn’t see you, sir” he replied timidly. Professor Dumbledore smiled gently, and Harry felt a little relief.

“Strange how near-sighted being invisible makes you,” he paused before continuing. “You, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised.”

Harry turned back to look at the large ornate mirror that had drawn him to this classroom for the past two days. It wasn’t just the fact that it was clearly out of place in an abandoned classroom; it was what it had shown harry.

It all began on the night of Christmas when Harry had set out to search the restricted section of the library for any reference to a Nicholas Flamel—the name that Hagrid had inadvertently revealed to them. Thanks to the invisibility cloak that he had received, it had been quite easy to sneak in the library at night. Unfortunately, Harry hadn’t anticipated any protective enchantments on the books themselves—the moment he opened one, it began screaming loudly. The sound alerted the prowling figures of Filch and Snape—who had chosen that very night to patrol the hallways. In his narrow escape from them, Harry had ended up in this classroom, stumbling upon the mirror.

It was large, almost as tall as Hagrid. The mirrored glass was stained with age, an ornate gold frame adorning it on all sides. His eyes briefly flitted to an inscription on top, written in a language he had never seen before:

_Erised stra ehru oy tube cafru oyt on wohsi._

A strange sensation drew him close to it, and when he stepped in front of it, Harry was taken aback in shock. To his surprise, the reflection wasn’t of Harry alone. There were people, standing all around him. More particularly, they were his family; all of them, including his parents, holding him in a way that he wished he could remember. Once the shock wore off, Harry found himself stuck to the ground, mesmerised by the sight in front of him. It was only after the bright morning sunlight crept in through the window that Harry reluctantly left the classroom.

But he couldn’t stay away from it for long. He returned the next night, this time with a sleepy and reluctant Ron. But it didn’t work; at least not in the way that Harry intended. Instead of seeing Harry’s family—or even his own—Ron saw something else entirely. He saw himself older, and as the Quidditch Captain for Gryffindor. He was the Head Boy, and he had won the House cup for Gryffindor—things Harry found extremely stupid to be happy about. Wanting to see his family, Harry tried pulling Ron away, only to be met with an angry friend. They had ended up nearly fighting for the right to stand in front of the mirror, only for Filch to come prowling nearby. They had left immediately.

The next day, Ron advised Harry to not go looking for the mirror, but Harry paid him no heed. He couldn’t help it, and he didn’t even want to. All he wanted was to stay here, in front of this mirror, with his family as long as he could. And he did—until he was caught.

“Have you realised by now what it does?” asked Professor Dumbledore and Harry tore his eyes away from the reflection to focus on the inscription.

“It—It shows me my family —”

“And it shows Mr Weasley himself as Quidditch Captain and Head Boy.”

“How—”

“There are many ways to become invisible,” Professor Dumbledore said gently. “Now, can you figure out what it shows us all?”

Harry shook his head, his attention still half diverted towards the image of his family.

“Let’s see. The happiest man on earth would be able to use the Mirror of Erised as any other mirror.” Professor Dumbledore paused. “He would be able to look into it and see himself exactly as he is. Now?”

This seemed to have sufficiently drawn Harry’s attention. He pondered for a moment.

“It shows us what we want…whatever we may want…”

“Hmm. Yes. And No,” said Professor Dumbledore, slowly pacing around Harry to come and stand in front of the mirror.

“It shows us the deepest, desperate desire of our heart,” he said quietly, “You, who yearns to know your family, see them standing around you. Ronald Weasley, who feels inadequate and overshadowed by his brothers, sees himself standing alone, with all the recognition he desires.”

Turning towards Harry, Professor Dumbledore spoke in a voice steeped in wisdom.

“The Mirror of Erised will give us neither knowledge nor truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen. Some have been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or possible, forgetting to live the life that they do have.”

Harry was shocked by all of this. The very idea of him wasting away in front of the mirror was shocking—but not as much as the realisation of the fact that it was entirely possible. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. This wasn’t real. As much as he wished it was a true reflection, it wasn’t. it was nothing but an image—an image that would be burned into his memory for the rest of his life; but an image, nonetheless. Wiping away an errant tear from his eye, Harry slowly turned to Professor Dumbledore.

“Harry, this Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow. I ask you not to go looking for it. If you ever do run across it, you will be prepared to face it.”

Harry nodded. Professor Dumbledore gave him a small smile.

“I think it is time you put on that admirable cloak of yours and get off to bed”

Harry was about to leave when he stopped.

“Sir, can I ask you something?”

“You just did” Professor Dumbledore smiled. “You may ask me another question.”

“What do you see sir, when you look into the mirror?”

“Me? I see myself holding a pair of thick woollen socks,” he replied rather quickly.

Harry stared.

“One can never have enough socks,” said Professor Dumbledore. “Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn’t get a single pair. People insist on giving me books.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was extensively reworked and elaborated. There were inconsistencies in POV's, especially in Mark's segments. Those have been corrected.
> 
> On a side note, the joke about Edwin and Professor McGonagall was just that; a joke. It just felt natural for the characters conversation. That's not going to happen.
> 
> Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	14. Elves

9th February 1992

“I’ve found him!” Harry exclaimed holding the chocolate frog card. “I’ve found Flamel!”

Ever since Hermione had returned from the Christmas Holidays, they had been spending all their free time searching for Nicolas Flamel. She had been disappointed to learn that the boys had made almost no effort, but Harry had distracted her by telling about the Mirror of Erised and his dad’s Invisibility Cloak.

But even after more than a month of searching, they found no mention of Flamel anywhere. That is until now.

“I told you I had seen the name somewhere. It was on Dumbledore’s Chocolate Frog Card. Listen to this: ‘Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel’!”

Hermione seemed to have remembered something, and she rushed to her dorms. After about a minute, she returned, with a large, old, book. She sat down beside them and began frantically flicking through the pages.

Harry and Ron shared mystified looks at this, and after a while, Ron asked

“What exactly-”

“Sssshhh!” Hermione shushed him barely looking up. After another minute, she finally exclaimed

“I knew it! I knew it!”

“Are we allowed to speak yet?” said Ron grumpily.

“I never thought to look in here!” Hermione continued excitedly, “I checked this out of the library a few weeks ago for a bit of light reading.”

“Light?” said Ron, who promptly shut up again after the look Hermione gave him. Harry still looked at her to complete her explanation.

“And?”

“Nicolas Flamel,” she whispered dramatically, “is the only known maker of the Philosopher’s Stone!”

Two dumb looks greeted her. Harry finally broke the silence,

“The what?”

“Oh, honestly,” she said with a sigh. “Look - just read this passage”

She pushed the book towards them, and they leaned over it.

_The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with making the Philosopher’s Stone, a legendary substance with astonishing powers. The Stone will transform any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of Life, which will make the drinker immortal._

_There have been many reports of the Philosopher’s Stone over the centuries, but the only Stone currently in existence belongs to Mr. Nicolas Flamel, the noted alchemist and opera lover. Mr. Flamel, who celebrated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year, enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife, Perenelle (six hundred and fifty-eight)._

They finished and sat straight, digesting the new information.

“So, the Philosopher’s Stone-” Harry drew out each word, but Hermione continued in her usual rapid fire,

“-is the thing that Fluffy’s guarding. I bet Flamel asked Dumbledore to keep it safe for him because they’re friends and he suspected that someone was after it.”

“He must have wanted the stone moved out of Gringotts,” Ron exclaimed. “And he was right, wasn’t he? The vault was broken into!”

“A Stone that can make you immortal, and makes as much gold as you want!” Harry said, “No wonder Snape’s after it! Anyone would be!”

Hermione nodded slowly. Ron spoke in an amused tone.

“And no wonder we didn’t find Flamel in the _Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry_ , the bloke’s not exactly recent if he’s six hundred and sixty-five, is he?”

* * *

“Where exactly are we going?” Neville asked his friends as they moved through the corridors. “Isn’t the great hall that way?”

“It is time you learnt one of our secrets, young one,” Fred mocked in a deep voice. “We are going to the kitchens for lunch”

“Kitchens?” Mark inquired. “You guys know how to get to the kitchens?”

“Found the way in our very first year, we did” George boasted, as they walked down the marble staircase.

The four of them had been practising the whole morning in their new ‘clubhouse’, as they called it. After a lot of cleaning and soundproofing, the unused classroom had been made usable. They had transfigured a set of cauldrons into a makeshift drum kit with Lee Jordan’s help, and Mark had brought an old xylophone from his home.

It had taken three sessions for the four to settle in, and they were quickly becoming friends. George said something about them being the ‘New Marauders’, but Mark had not understood the reference.

The four reached the portrait of the pear near the Hufflepuff Dorms, and the Fred tickled the painting. To Mark’s surprise, the pear giggled before turning into a doorknob. Once inside, Mark was greeted by the most spectacular sight.

The kitchens were huge. There were five tables laden with food identical to the layout of the Great Hall, with additional areas for the pantry and cooking.

‘They must be directly sending the food up from here,’ Mark thought, remembering the manner in which food magically appeared during meals.

Glancing around he realised that the little figures rapidly running around in the kitchens were not humans, but little creatures with large ball-like eyes and batty ears.

‘Elves,’ he remembered, walking towards his friends. They were seated on a table beside the pantry.

“Yous is being very naughty Master Weasleys, always coming to eat here instead of dining proper in the Great Hall” one of the elves was scolding the twins while serving them food.

“Oh, admit it, you love us Tippy,” Fred retorted teasingly, making the little elf’s cheeks green.

“Now eat,” the elf said before moving on to work again.

“I didn’t know Hogwarts had house elves,” Mark commented, grabbing some chips.

“Yeah, they run the place. Food, cleaning, laundry, you name it” George answered

“But why have I not noticed them before?”

“That means they’re doing their job well,” Neville answered. On seeing mark’s confusion, he clarified further, “It’s a mark of a good elf, to not be seen.” Mark nodded slowly at this.

“None of our books mention anything about them. Do they get paid or are they like slaves?”

George immediately hushed him.

“Don’t ever mention pay in front of them,” he hissed. “They work because they like to work, and in exchange, their magic is enhanced by the Master.”

“I didn’t know that,” remarked Neville with a questioning face.

“Yeah, we know a few things,” Fred said pompously, “Our marks may say otherwise, but that’s the truth.”

“You throw away your marks to get a reaction out of your mother,” Mark said to their surprise, “I’m not stupid. You guys are able to brew NEWT level potions in your third year. You think I didn’t notice the shrinking solution you used in your pranks?”

Fred and George looked gobsmacked, while Neville was sniggering.

“You caught us,” they said finally, raising their hands. “No trying to hide it.” They looked at each other as if deciding something. Finally, it was George who spoke.

“We want to open a joke shop when we leave Hogwarts”

“No shit.” Mark looked at them both before adding, “You guys are serious.” Two nods answered.

“Like-like work at Zonko’s?” Neville asked. He hadn’t expected the two pranksters to have actual career plans at this age.

“No. Our own shop. We even thought of a name for it-” George said in the most serious tone Mark had ever seen him use.

“-Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes” Fred supplied.

“So, what’s the issue?” Mark asked, “Your mother doesn’t like that?”

Fred snorted at that. “She’d have kittens if she found out. No, she wants us to work in the ministry, just like Percy.” He answered dejectedly, “And anyway, it’s just a dream.”

“It’ll work out,” Mark said sympathetically, “You’ve still got four more years.”

They both nodded. An awkward silence followed

“So, do you guys have a date for Valentine’s day?”

* * *

14th February 1992

Harry was hiding in his dorms. He’d been having breakfast in the great hall like any other day, but within moments he found himself being hounded by the older girls asking him for valentine’s

Harry had been surprised at this. In his life before Hogwarts, no one had even bothered to look at him, let alone be pursued by girls clearly more than a couple of years older than him. His uncle had even remarked on many occasions that no sane girl would ever want a freak like him. Harry had just quietly listened to his insults, but he hadn’t expected otherwise.

Ron had shared in his discomfort and had helped him escape to the dorms after classes. They had sat for a while discussing what they’d do if they had the Philosophers Stone.

Harry’s thoughts were currently occupied by the upcoming Quidditch match with Hufflepuff. Thanks to their last victory, Gryffindor was gaining a lead in the House Cup, catching up to Slytherin.

So, it was no surprise, that the news of Snape refereeing the next match was met by complaints in their house. Technically since he was not affiliated with either of the teams playing, Snape was expected to be unbiased in his duty; but this was Snape.

Harry, however, had other worries. Snape had tried to kill him from the stands in the last match, and he was most likely to try again this time easily in the air.

Against the protests of Hermione and Ron, Harry had decided that he would be playing, since he didn’t want the Slytherins to have something to further mock him. He just hoped he would make it out alive.

* * *

16th February 1992

Mark rubbed his eyes as he closed the book in front of him. He’d been reading the Standard Book of Spells Grade 4, more specifically the summoning charm.

It had actually come up when he’d been feeling too lazy to get up from the armchair in the common room and get his books from his trunk. He had asked Percy, who had been sitting nearby if a spell could do that. In a long winding explanation that included wizarding etiquettes about laziness that had followed, Mark had come to know of the rather nifty charm.

He had spent all day after class reading up on the fourth-year spell in the library. Checking his watch, he saw that he had missed dinner. He immediately remembered the kitchens.

Happy that he had a reliable source of food, he set off towards it. On his way, he pondered over the interesting subject of making spells. The wand movement for the summoning charm that he had read had been fairly simple, however, it was the power draw pattern that had been intriguing.

For all the other spells they had learnt, the power draw pattern was either a point at the wand tip, like the light from a bulb, or a linear projection like the beam of a torch. The summoning charm, however, had a power draw pattern like a doughnut.

The main reason that it was a spell reserved until the fourth year was this; the pattern was not easy to master at all. From the notes that he found in the library, most students took a couple of weeks to get the hang of it.

Mark was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost walked past the entrance to the kitchens. As he’d seen Fred do earlier, he tickled the pear and went inside. He asked for some food and was immediately served a small banquet to his feeble protests by the elves. Looking at his eager little hosts he wondered

“Have you guys had your dinner yet? Why don’t you join me?”

His innocent question was met by what he figured were scandalised looks. ‘Shit,’ he thought. His question must have somehow offended them. He decided to look into their minds for answers.

What he found was most interesting. The minds of the house-elves were very different than humans. He found different layers of thoughts, protected by some sort of intruder protections. However, it was constructed in a bizarre fashion - The most private thoughts _and_ the most public thoughts were the most easily accessible, with the layers in the middle almost impenetrable to him.

‘The knowledge about _their masters_ is the most heavily protected,’ he concluded. ‘It’s as if there is some magic protecting the bond between the elf and its master.’ He shook these thoughts, shelving them for rumination.

“I meant no offence,” he tried to placate the elves. “I just wished to imply that I would not mind your company.”

“It is very kinds of you, Master Smith,” one of the elves said, “But it is not proper for a elf to consider itself equal-”

“As you wish,” Mark said. “Please do whatever you’re comfortable with.”

The elves seemed torn at this. Finally, one of them signalled the others, who then left. The lone elf spoke.

“Corky will provide you with company, Master Smith”

Mark smiled as he ate his sandwich. “Thanks, Corky.” After munching some more, he asked

“So Corky, how old are you?”

“Corky is being sixteen human years, sir”

“Huh. And how long - how long does a house elf live for?”

Corky thought for a few moments, before replying

“It can be from eighty to two hundred of your years, sir”

“Two hundred?! Really?”

“Yes, sir”

“How long have you worked at Hogwarts?”

“I was born here Master Smith”

“Then you must know the castle like the back of your hand. Do you know any secrets? Something to tell your new friend, perhaps?” Mark asked in an amused tone.

Corky, however, took the question seriously, and immediately answered

“We is bound not to share Hogwarts secrets.” Corky took a pause, before adding slowly, “But there is a place that is not a secret. None of the wizard masters know about it. You sees, it is being forgotten”

Mark’s interest was piqued.

“Really? Will you tell me?” He asked in the politest tone he could muster. Corky nodded slowly

“On the sixth floor, near the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, there is being a secret room.” There was a pause before the instructions continued.

“It becomes whatever you wishes it to be. You walks in front of it three times thinking about what you wants and the room comes”

“You’re kidding!” Mark hissed excitedly.

“We house-elf cannot lie Master Smith” the elf replied, in an offended tone.

“Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I was just surprised. What’s this room called?”

Corky seemed to be satisfied with the clarification, and answered,

“We elves is calling it the Come-And-Go-Room”


	15. A Dragon and a Plan

22nd February 1992

“You mean the Stone’s only safe as long as Quirrell stands up to Snape?” Hermione asked, alarmed.

Harry nodded. He’d just returned after eavesdropping on a conversation between Snape and Quirrell after the Quidditch Match against Hufflepuff.

His fears about his safety had been laid to rest when he’d seen that Dumbledore had joined the stands as a spectator. Snape had also seemed irritated, and Harry had figured that it was due to his plans being spoilt.

After the match which finished in not more than fifteen minutes, Harry had been coming out of the locker room when he’d spotted Snape walking towards the forbidden forest. Taking a risky chance, he followed the Potions master from the air on his Nimbus.

Looking for Snape through the thick foliage had been difficult, so Harry had been forced to follow through the branches. When he had heard voices, he’s settled on a thick branch to follow the conversation, which surprisingly was between Snape and Quirrell

**“… d-don’t know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of all p-places, Severus …”**

**“Oh, I thought we’d keep this private,” said Snape, his voice icy. “Students aren’t supposed to know about the Philosopher’s Stone, after all.”**

**Harry leaned forward. Quirrell was mumbling something but Snape interrupted him.**

**“Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid’s yet?”**

**“B-b-but Severus, I —”**

**“You don’t want me as your enemy, Quirrell,” said Snape, taking a step toward him.**

**“I-I don’t know what you —”**

**“You know perfectly well what I mean.”**

**An owl hooted loudly, and Harry had nearly fallen out of the tree. He had managed to steady himself in time to hear Snape say, “— your little bit of hocus-pocus. I’m waiting.”**

**“B-but I d-d-don’t —”**

**“Very well,” Snape cut in. “We’ll have another little chat soon, when you’ve had time to think things over and decided where your loyalties lie.”**

Harry had immediately returned, and had told his friends about how he reckoned that Quirrell was one of those protecting the stone and how Snape wanted to get past them.

“It’ll be gone by Tuesday, then,” Ron remarked.

* * *

Mark looked around in awe. He had decided to follow Corky’s instructions and come to the Come and Go Room. And he was not disappointed at all.

In order to test if the room could turn into anything, he had thought about the restricted section of the Library. And lo behold, he was now standing in the room surrounded by bookshelves containing books from the Restricted Section.

‘This will be really useful,’ he thought. Walking in the aisles, he browsed the various sections. He was surprised to see that most of the volumes were not anything radically different from the books in the non-restricted section. They were mostly just advanced books, kept under lock so that they could only be used judicially. Others were books about controlled subjects, like the one he saw on Portkeys.

He finally found a book on the subject he’d been hoping to know more about- Legilimency. Taking the book, he asked the room for a place to sit comfortably. An armchair and a small seating area materialised nearby.

“Awesome,” he said to himself, before slumping into the chair. He thought of asking the room for some snacks, but none appeared.

‘Must be a limitation due to Gamp’s Law,’ Mark thought. They had been introduced to empirical Gamp’s Law of Elemental transfigurations as well as its exceptions by Professor McGonagall.

Settling in, he was quickly absorbed in the book in his hands. After about twenty minutes of reading, he found a passage that seemed to apply to him.

_Not much is known about those who have been called ‘Natural’ Legilimens. It is speculated that the ability manifests in the subjects pre-adolescence. They are thought to be able to read minds without the need for a wand or spell._

_It is quite possible that the legilimens spell itself was developed to mimic this ability in the first place. Some evidence even points to the fact that a Natural Legilimens can read the thoughts from an unprotected mind without the need for eye contact, most widely thought to be essential for the ability._

_However, the few records that have been found all indicated that such individuals do not make into adulthood, killing themselves to escape the ‘voices in their head.’ As opposed to Natural Legilimens, Natural Occlumens, however, have confirmed evidence for their existence, with many notable wizards recorded in history as examples._

‘Natural Legilimens,’ Mark pondered. All the descriptions did match all the symptoms after all. The part about not making into adolescence sent a chill through his bones. His thoughts went to Edwin, and what would have happened if he hadn’t learned to control his ability.

Looking at his watch, he saw that it was time for curfew. He got up and kept the book back. He would have to return here to check out everything else. He wondered if he should tell about this to his friends.

‘No,’ he realised. Maybe Neville, after some time. But not Fred and George. Heaven knew what would happen if the two pranksters got access to the Restricted Section. And in any case, they had a few secrets of their own. This could be his.

* * *

1st March 1992

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”

Ron stood dumbfounded in the middle of his dorm. He hadn’t expected his birthday to be celebrated today. When no one had said anything in the morning, he just assumed they had no idea. Seeing the people surrounding him, he realised that they must have planned the surprise.

All the Gryffindor first years were there, and so were the members of the Quidditch team. The room was decorated with streamers, and the twins were standing to the side with a cake.

“I - I thought you guys must have forgotten,” he stammered.

“We wouldn’t forget ickle Ronniekins birthday now would we,” George said.

“No way, brother mine,” Fred chimed.

“Hermione reminded them,” Mark spoke, standing smugly in the corner. The girl blushed heavily at this, and quickly retorted,

“It was Harry’s plan. He thought of the party.”

“Thanks, mate,” Ron said, giving his friend a hug. Harry just shrugged.

It was good to have friends.

* * *

24th April 1992

“Hagrid, you live in a _wooden_ house,” remarked Hermione, and Harry agreed with her assessment. There was no way this situation could turn out for the better.

Hermione had realised a week earlier that the end-of-year-exams were drawing nearer, and had diverted both Harry and Ron’s attention away from their worries about Quirrell. The Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor hadn’t cracked yet, much to their relief, and Hermione had taken up to nag them about their revisions.

Today while in the library, Ron had spotted Hagrid sneaking around in the section on Dragons. They’d followed their large friend to his hut on the grounds, where they had quite an interesting conversation about the protections around the Philosophers Stone.

However, before they left, Harry had noticed something in the fireplace. Sitting underneath the kettle, in the heart of the fire was a huge black egg.

Hagrid had procured a dragon’s egg from somewhere, and Harry remembered that the gamekeeper had mentioned how he would like to have one.

When he questioned Hagrid about it, his friend answered that he was fine and the manner in which he’d come across the egg- he had won it last night at the pub from a passing stranger. He told them how he had read up all about raising dragons from the books he’d gotten from the library

But Harry’s worries were not laid to rest. Ron had informed them earlier in the library how dragon breeding was outlawed centuries ago, and winning an egg in a pub was by no means legal.

Hagrid was in a lot of trouble.

* * *

30th April 1992

“I’m telling you Malfoy is up to something,” Neville whispered to Mark after Charms, which was the last class of the day.

“And how is that any of your concern?” Mark replied. Neville had been going on and on about some illegal dragon that Harry and Ron had been talking about, and how Malfoy had heard them. Afterwards, Neville had seen the boy look very smug, like the cat that caught the canary.

“Because I don’t want them to get caught,” Neville replied vehemently. “Why don’t you believe me?”

Mark held his tongue and considered his friend’s words.

“Ok, let's say you heard correctly. Don’t you think there is a chance that the two of them might have intentionally let Malfoy overhear to get him in trouble? You know, a reply to that trophy room trap?”

Neville clenched his jaw and answered in a confident tone.

“No, because they’re not like that. It's as-”

“Ok, they’re not deceiving anyone. Say there’s really a dragon. Don’t you think Harry will have a plan for it?” Mark interrupted.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Malfoy knows of Harry’s plan!” Neville replied, exasperated. “You know, forget it!” he said finally, before walking away angrily.

Mark shook his head. He decided to head to the common room and practice his transfiguration assignment. They had to figure out how to transfigure different source materials into the same target material, and write an essay on it. The actual practical transfiguration would not be required of them until their third year; for now, they were studying the theory.

The restricted section from the Come and Go Room was quite brilliant and was even helping him a lot with his coursework. He had limited his time there of course, since Fred and George had questioned him about his mysterious disappearances.

Taken aback at their persistence, Mark had gleaned them to find that they had a magical map of Hogwarts, which had the ability to track every occupant. The next time he visited the Come and Go Room, he simply asked it to make it appear on any map that he was inside the library or the lavatory.

Reaching the common room, he groaned when he remembered the Herbology essay due on Monday. He’d need to beg Neville to help him with that.

* * *

8th May 1992

Ron was lying in the hospital wing feeling horrible. How could he have been so stupid?

First, he’d spoke a little too loudly when discussing Hagrid’s new dragon egg with Harry and Hermione, and Malfoy had most likely overheard them. After receiving the message from Hagrid, they’d gone to watch the egg hatching after Herbology ended. To their horror, Malfoy had seen the dragon from the crack in the window curtains.

After thinking about what to do with Norbert, the now rapidly growing Norwegian Ridgeback, for a week, Harry had the most brilliant idea. He had suggested they contact Charlie in Romania. Hagrid had reluctantly agreed.

Ron cursed himself. Why hadn’t _he_ thought of Charlie? It was his own brother, after all. Was he o incompetent that he couldn’t even remember such a simple thing?

The cursed dragon had even bit him. He had been helping Hagrid feed Norbert dead rats, and the bloody animal had bitten him. He tried to put off going to the hospital wing, as Madam Pomfrey might recognise the dragon bite, but his hand swelled to twice its size and the wound turned green.

Charlie’s letter had arrived, telling them to go on top of the tallest tower with Norbert at midnight on Saturday. Now, stuck in the hospital wing, he was of no use to his friends.

To top all of it, he’d been even more stupid and kept Charlie’s letter in a book. Malfoy came in the hospital wing to laugh at him, telling Madam Pomfrey that he wanted to borrow one of his books. And Ron gave it to him, completely forgetting about the letter inside.

Since it was too late to change the plan, Harry and Hermione had decided to go with it, counting on the advantage of having an Invisibility Cloak.

Ron’s insides churned. He hoped he had not doomed his friends.


	16. Midnight Excursions

9th May 1992

“Fifty points?” Harry gasped.  This would nullify the House points they’d won for the last Quidditch match.

“Fifty points _each_ ,” Professor McGonagall flared. “I don’t want to hear a single complaint about this. I’ve never been more ashamed of Gryffindor students.”

Harry’s heart turned to lead. There was no way they could make up for this. It had all started when they had taken Norbert to be smuggled out of the castle. They had heard Malfoy getting caught while they were on their way to the top of the tower. In their glee at Malfoy getting punished and the fact that the blasted dragon was out of their hands, they forgot the Invisibility Cloak on the top of the tower.

They were caught by Filch and Professor McGonagall on their way back. Evidently, she had already detained Malfoy, as well as Neville who seemed to have been trying to warn them. Professor McGonagall had implied immediately that they must have fed a false story about a dragon to Malfoy in order to get him in trouble, and Neville had overheard.

Harry and Hermione did not correct her, as doing so would have needed them to explain about Hagrid and the Norbert. Plus, there was no telling if it would make things better.

“Now get to bed the four of you,” Professor McGonagall snapped, before walking away. Harry, Hermione, and Neville walked their way to Gryffindor Tower without sharing a single word. When they got to the dormitory, Neville didn’t give Harry a chance to apologise, drawing the curtains of his four-poster bed shut.

Racked with guilt, Harry found himself unable to sleep all night. He could hear the light sobs coming from Neville’s bed, but he didn’t know what to say to the poor boy to make it better. And what would happen tomorrow, when the rest of the Gryffindor House found out? Surely everyone would notice a decrease of a _hundred and fifty_ points.

In one night, all the chances of Gryffindor winning the house cup had vanished. The older students were not going to be happy.

One thing was certain. Harry pledged not to go meddling around in things that were not his business.

* * *

22nd May 1992

“So, what do we do Harry?” asked Ron, the light of adventure kindling in his eyes. Harry didn’t think his pledge to himself would be challenged so soon.

He’d just told his friends about what he’d overheard. While walking back from the library, he had heard sobs coming from a classroom. When he neared it, he had heard Quirrell’s voice pleading with someone.

“No - no - not again, please -”

Harry moved closer to hear to who was threatening him but evidently missed the next exchange. He finally heard Quirrell assenting softly.

“All right - all right -”

Immediately afterwards, Quirrell came rushing out of the classroom, as Harry instinctively dived in the shadows. He straightened his turban, then hurriedly walked away.

Once the footsteps had disappeared, Harry had peered into the classroom, but it was empty except for a door ajar on the other side. The other occupant must have gone the other way, and Harry could have bet his broom that it had been Snape.

Quirrell had finally given in.

“Go to Professor Dumbledore,” said Hermione in reply to Ron. “We should have done that a long time ago. If we get involved ourselves, we’d be expelled next,” she said with a hint of fear in her voice.

“But we have no proof,” Harry retorted. “Who’s going to back us up? Quirrell? Filch? Or do you think Snape will happily admit to conspiracy?” Taking a pause, he added,

“And don’t forget, everyone knows that we hate him, and it's going to take a lot of explaining to cover our knowledge of things we’re not even supposed to know about.”

“If we just do a bit of poking around-” Ron said, drawing out every word.

“Oh no, we have done _enough_ of poking around,” Harry snapped, before taking out his notes to study.

* * *

‘’You’ve got to help me with this Neville,” Mark said, frustrated with the book in front of him. Herbology was just so frustrating.

“I can’t make out the difference between _Anjelica_ and _Arnica_ ,” he said to his friend. After a moment he added, “Other than one’s a blonde and the other a redhead”

Neville didn’t even crack a smile. ‘Oh, come on,’ Mark thought, ‘that was a good one.’ He had been trying to cheer up his friend. The whole of Gryffindor house had turned on Neville after the points fiasco; the only person who had it worse was Harry, and that was just because he was well known.

“Yeah, ok,” Neville said finally, in the most dejected voice Mark had ever heard him speak in. He took the book from Mark and started explaining the difference between the two similar sounding plants.

Mark knew he should be paying attention, but he was soon lost in thought. He had been extremely angry at Harry and Hermione initially, but after _gleaning_ the latter, he had learnt that the dragon story was actually true and that they had been trying to protect Hagrid, the kind gamekeeper.

This had dissipated Mark’s anger, and he decided to chalk it off to bad luck. He didn’t realise why all the Gryffindors were taking the House Points so seriously. They were there just for an incentive. Not that it was going to matter in real-life, right?

Neville had shrunk into a shell, and since it was so near the exams, they had stopped their weekly music practices too, which further made the already shy boy into a recluse.

Mark realised that he hadn’t paid attention to Neville’s explanation, which was now finished. Deciding to relieve his friend from giving another one, he just _gleaned_ the information present in front of Neville’s mind.

* * *

26th May 1992

“Are you all right?” the centaur standing over him asked, offering his hand to Harry. Harry took the hand and pulled himself up.

“Thank you. What - What was that?” Harry asked. referring to the figure he’d encountered just over a minute ago.

Draco Malfoy, Hermione, Neville, and he were on their detention assigned by Professor McGonagall. They were escorting Hagrid on a trip to the forbidden forest, where they were trying to find an injured unicorn.

Hagrid had arranged for the detention to be with him since it was due to his dragon that they had been in detention in the first place. At first, Malfoy and Neville were paired together alongside Fang, Hagrid’s dog, but after Malfoy tried to scare Neville, Harry had been stuck with the Slytherin.

They had tried to follow the trail supposed to have been left by the unicorn: drops of silver blood. After a while, they had finally found the unicorn, but it seemed it was already dead. Before Harry could take a step further, however, a hooded figure had appeared out of the shadows.

The figure lowered its head over the silver wound on the bright white and slender figure of the unicorn and began drinking its blood.

Harry had been frozen, but Malfoy had bolted immediately. And so had Fang. This had drawn the figure’s attention, and it had looked straight at Harry, silver unicorn blood dripping down its front.

White hot pain pierced Harry’s head at that moment, centred around his scar, which felt as if it was on fire. He’d tried to escape, but the pain was too disorienting, and he had fallen backwards clutching his head.

The centaur now standing before him had then appeared. He had jumped clean over Harry and charged at the figure, which hastily retreated.

Harry saw the centaur studying him now; he had still not answered his question. The centaur had white-blond hair and a palomino coat. He seemed to be younger than either Bane or Ronan, the other mysterious centaurs Harry had met earlier.

“You are the Potter boy,” the centaur finally spoke, his eyes on Harry’s scar. “This forest is not safe for you - especially at this time of the night. Can you ride? You need to get back to Hagrid.”

Harry just nodded dumbly, still shocked by the events that had happened. The centaur knelt down on his front legs and introduced himself.

“I’m Firenze,” he said as Harry clambered onto his back. As he got up again, the sounds of thundering hooves came from behind them. Ronan and Bane came bursting through the trees, along with a few more centaurs.

“Have you no shame, acting like a common mule?” Bane shouted, before proceeding to speak in a language Harry couldn’t understand.

Firenze retorted back in the same language, his front hooves stomping the ground in anger. Harry could make out his name being spoken, but couldn’t fully follow the conversation. The centaurs were obviously proud beings, and carrying a human was some sort of a forbidden act.

“Do you not see the dead unicorn?” Firenze finally spoke in English again. “You speak of the planets, but conveniently forget what else has also been foretold.”

“I do not believe it refers to one of us, Firenze,” spoke Ronan in a calm tone, trying to pacify the situation. “The centaurs have sworn to never interfere, and fate would not demand us to do so.”

“Then you doom us to perish, along with the rest,” Firenze snapped, before turning around and galloping off with Harry still on his back.

After a while, Harry asked the immediate questions on his mind. “Why’s Bane so angry? Is it because of me?” Remembering that his earlier question was also unanswered, he continued, “And what was that the thing you saved me from earlier?”

Firenze didn’t talk, and the silence stayed unbroken until they reached a clearing. He stopped and motioned for Harry to get off. Once Harry dismounted, the centaur spoke.

“Harry Potter. Are you familiar with the use of Unicorn blood?”

Harry shook his head. “I’ve only heard of Unicorn tail hair”

“That is because the Unicorn is the most innocent of all creatures. It is a monstrous thing, a crime against nature itself to have slain something so pure.” Firenze took a pause, forming the words carefully in his mouth.

“The blood of a Unicorn will keep you from death, but the cost is terrible. Only one who has nothing to lose, and everything to gain would be willing to pay it, for it will condemn you to a half-life, a cursed life.”

“Who’d be that desperate?” Harry wondered aloud. “Isn’t death better?”

“It is,” Firenze agreed pensively, “unless all you need to do I survive. Long enough to be resurrected by something else - something that will mean you can never die”

“The Elixir of Life,” Harry muttered, the pieces finally falling into place. “But who-”

“Can you think of nobody who has been waiting for over a decade to return to power?”

Harry blood ran cold as he realised who Firenze was referring to. _Voldemort_

* * *

4th June 1992

“Dumbledore’s _gone_?” Harry almost shouted, “ _Now_?”

“Professor Dumbledore is a very important wizard, Potter, and he has many responsibilities on his time-”

Harry swallowed down the lump in his throat. His worse fears were coming true. For the whole week after the incident in the forbidden forest, Harry was dreading Voldemort to walk into Hogwarts. Coupled with the still throbbing pain in his scar, he was still kind of amazed how he’d managed to give his exams through the pain and anxiety.

It was just after their last exam had ended that Harry had realised something. The only way to get to the Stone was to first go through Fluffy, and Harry knew Hagrid would never willingly betray Dumbledore.

But to get Hagrid to loosen up after some compliments was fairly easy; after all, they’d done it themselves. And if someone got his friend something he’d been wanting desperately, it would be even easier. Something like a dragon egg.

They had rushed to Hagrid, where they confirmed their suspicions. The hooded guy who gave Hagrid Norbert had seemed especially interested in Fluffy and had managed to get it out of Hagrid the manner in which to subdue the three-headed dog.

Realising that now Snape and possibly even Voldemort knew how to get through all the protections, they rushed to tell Dumbledore; but Professor McGonagall informed them right now that the Headmaster had received an urgent owl, and was gone to London.

“This is important Professor,” Hermione pleaded.

“What do you have to say that is more important than the Ministry of Magic, Ms Granger?”

“Professor - it’s about the Philosopher’s Stone -” Harry answered to the surprise of Professor McGonagall, who dropped the books she had been carrying.

“We know that Sn- that someone is going to try and steal the stone -”

“I do not know how you found out about the stone,” she interrupted, “but it is too well protected. Now I do not want to hear you tell another student some made up story as a prank, Potter.”

She looked at the three students in front of her and picking up her books, left.

Once she was out of earshot, Harry turned to his friends.

“It’s tonight”


	17. Famous Five

4th June 1992

“Where are you going now?” came Neville’s voice from the corner of the common room.

Harry cursed inwardly. Nothing seemed to be going according to plan. Once they had learnt that the stone was in danger, they had tried to keep an eye on both the entrance of Fluffy’s room and on Snape.

Hermione had been assigned to the latter. She had tried to hang around the staff room, under the pretence of meeting with Professor Flitwick. But Snape had found her and dismissed her to come back later. As much as they suspected him, they couldn’t tip him off, and so they lost track of the Potions Professor.

Harry and Ron had tried to hang around outside Fluffy’s door, checking if the guardian was still doing its job. Once again, however, their plan was foiled when Professor McGonagall had found them and driven them away.

Having no plan to check up further on the situation, they had decided to go and stop Snape themselves. Actually, Harry had decided that he would go and his friends had refused to stay back. They had stayed awake in the common room late enough for the students to empty, before heading out. But again, to their rotten luck, it was not.

“Nowhere Neville. It's nothing. We-We are just stretching our legs,” Harry said, trying to sound casual. His companions nodded quickly, but the guilt was evident on their faces.

“You’re going out again. You’ll be caught, and Gryffindor will be in trouble again,” the normally shy Neville spoke angrily. “Haven’t you done enough?”

“Why don’t you go to bed, Neville? We aren’t-” Hermione tried to placate her fellow Housemate, but was interrupted immediately.

“Don’t lie to me. You sneaking out for some stupid joke has cost us already-”

“You don’t understand, Neville,” Harry pleaded. “This-this is important.”

Neville was not convinced and took a few steps towards the portrait hole.

“I won’t let you do it,” he said, reaching in front of the exit, “I’ll - I’ll fight you!”

“Don’t be an idiot!” Ron exploded. “What do you think you’re doing? -”

“I think I’m stopping you from breaking any more rules! And don’t you dare call me an idiot!” Neville retorted, his fists shaking in anger.

Hermione seemed to be getting impatient and decided to cut the argument short.

“I’m really sorry about this, Neville,” she said drawing out her wand and pointing it at Neville. “Petrificus-”

“Petrificus Totalus!” came the rapid cry from behind them, and the spell hit Hermione before she could complete hers. She went rigid, tumbling onto the floor. Harry twisted quickly, his hand reaching for the wand in his robes, but the voice warned them.

“Oh no, you don’t.” It was Mark, standing below the stairs to the boy’s dorm. “Any of you draw your wand, and you’ll be down before you know it.”

Mark walked towards Harry, his wand still pointed towards the two boys. Neville seemed both angry and relieved at the intervention of his friend.

“Now will you tell me exactly what it is you’re going out there for you to justify hexing Neville for?” Mark demanded.

Harry tried to evaluate the situation he was now facing. He was quickly losing time, and Snape would probably have reached Fluffy already. There was no way they would be able to give Mark the slip. Should he tell the truth?

“It’s none of your damn business!” yelled Ron. “Why do you have to poke your nose where it doesn’t belong?” Harry could make out that Ron was getting distressed, and Mark was quickly losing his patience. Coming to a decision, he spoke.

“It’s alright Ron. I think its best we explain.” Ron seemed shocked at this but nodded weakly. Harry then turned to Mark.

“You know the forbidden corridor on the third floor? Well, Professor Dumbledore has been hiding the Phi- something there all year. We - We know that Voldemort-” There was a small gasp and shudder from Ron and Neville, but Mark seemed unfazed.

Harry continued, “is looking for it, and Snape is going to steal it tonight since Dumbledore is not in the castle.”

A stunned silence followed as both Neville and Mark digested the information.

“We’ll come with you”

Harry was surprised. Not just at the words, but by the fact that Neville had spoken them.

“It’ll - it’ll be dangerous” Harry warned, but he could sense the futility of the words as the left his mouth.

“We’ll be careful then,” Mark said, his eyes holding a silent conversation with Neville.

* * *

As they edged near the forbidden third-floor corridor, Mark wondered how he had managed to land himself in this situation.

He was sneaking out after curfew, going to a section of the castle explicitly forbidden to the students, and possibly attack one of his teachers. Harry, Ron, and Neville were currently at the head of their group, hiding underneath Harry’s invisibility cloak, checking if their path was clear. He was following a few steps behind along with Hermione, trying to stick in the shadows.

Mark tried to mentally review all that he had learnt from Ron’s head in the common room. Obviously, Harry had not been lying, and Hagrid had told them the things which supported the story. There was a possibility that Harry had lied to Ron and Hermione about his encounters with Snape and Quirrell, and about the time he had spent in the Forbidden Forest, but that was not Harry.

The most surprising part was the fact that it was the Philosophers Stone that was being protected. Ron’s memories about the book Hermione had shown them came to his mind. _Elixir of Life._ Was it possible?

Mark stole a glance at the witch beside him. Hermione was clearly irritated at being stuck with him, and his earlier attack was the most likely reason. Moments after Mark had lifted the spell, she had tried to dissuade him and Neville from coming with but had been outvoted. His musings were interrupted when Hermione whispered.

“We’re here.”

The five of them crowded outside the door and were surprised to find it ajar.

“Well there you are,” Harry whispered, “Snape must have already gotten past Fluffy”

That was it. Actual proof that Harry had spoken the truth. Mark tried to steel himself, his hand fisting inside his pocket. A spare quill and a chocolate frog pack brushed his fingers. Swallowing the nervous lump in his throat, he followed his companions inside the room.

A low rumbling reached his ears before he could take in the sight before him. As his eyes wandered across the three oversized canine heads staring at him, his mind timidly registered the fact that out of the five, he was seeing Fluffy for the first time.

“What’s that? Look - near its feet.” Marks eyes followed Ron’s instruction and came across a small golden instrument half covered by the dog’s enormous paw. He recognised it.

“It’s a harp.”

“Snape must have left it,” said Harry. “It must wake up once the music stops. Well, here it goes …”

Mark saw Harry draw a flute from his robe and bring it to his lips. The boy blew on it, and the tune which came out was the most atrocious one Mark had ever heard.

“Do you even know how to play it?” Mark hissed. The growls from Fluffy had now become pronounced; the dog was clearly unimpressed by the performance.

Harry tried to improve his playing but ended up making it even worse. Fluffy was getting impatient, and now becoming more alert. Mark shared the dog’s sentiment; he hated a bad tune. Impulsively he reached out and snatched the flute from Harry. Putting it to his own lips, he remembered the one tune Mr Cayley had taught him a few years ago.

As the music started to flow, Fluffy’ growls softened, and eventually, the big mongrel dozed off. Once he was sure the dog was sound asleep, he stopped playing and looked at his companions.

“Through the Trapdoor, then.”

* * *

Neville peered down the trapdoor - all he could see was black.

“There’s no way of climbing down, we’ll have to drop” Ron whispered beside him, his nervousness evident.

“I’ll hold the door open,” Neville said, surprising himself with his own bravery. He still couldn’t believe the situation he was currently in.

Harry nodded slightly, and after taking a deep breath, jumped in.

“It’s alright. There’s a soft landing” came the faint voice of Harry after a few moments. Nodding to the others, Hermione went next. She was followed by Mark and then Ron until it was just Neville who remained.

He was surprised when he too jumped into the tunnel beneath the trapdoor with no hint of nervousness and anxiety that he associated with himself. As he fell in, his mind wandered to the revelations that Harry had made earlier in the common room. Harry was going to stop You-Know-Who, and all Neville could think of was his parents lying in St.Mungo’s. There was no way he would let that monster come back to power.

His thoughts were interrupted when he landed with a thump onto something leafy. He found himself in pitch darkness. The only light was coming from the trapdoor above.

“Guys, I’m here.” All he heard in reply were muffled voices. A voice, which he reckoned belonged to Ron was the most clearly audible.

“Trap…can’t breathe…can’t move”

‘What?’ Before Neville could think about what Ron’s words, he found himself immobilised. Something strong had already gripped his legs and he could feel it snaking onto his arms.

“Some sort of vine…” came the weak voice of Harry. “cant concen - dizzy”

‘Vine? - Dizzy?’ Neville’s mind raced to process all the information about the situation he was in. A brief memory of Great Uncle Algie’s greenhouse came to his rescue.

“Its Devil’s Snare!” he shouted, trying to reach for his wand in his robes. After a brief struggle, he touched the handle and shouted one of the few incantations that he knew well.

“ _Lumos Solaris!_ ”

A Yellow warmth touched his side as it illuminated the area to his right. The building pressure from the vines around his arms lessened. His eyes wandered to the now illuminated room.

‘Bloody Hell’ Devil’s Snare was one of the most controlled plants in the magical world. Great Uncle Algie was especially proud of the four-foot vine in his greenhouse. Now, Neville found himself surrounded with a vine at least a dozen time’s larger. ‘Make that twenty times’ he added to himself. Now free of his binds, he started moving slowly towards the others.

Five minutes later, all five of them were safely out of the Devil’s Snare, illuminated in the bright and warm glow from Neville’s wand.

“Thanks, Neville,” Harry said weakly, his hand massaging his sore ribs. “Let’s move”

* * *

Ron followed Harry and the others into the next chamber. His hand was still cradling his throat where the stupid plant had tried to choke him. Thank Merlin Neville had decided to join them. The boy knew his plants well.

As they stepped into the next room, his mind was diverted to the sight before him. Unlike the previous room, it was illuminated by a small white lamp on the ceiling. However, it was not the light which had drawn his attention but the hundreds of sparkly birds flying around the room.

“Will they attack us?” asked Hermione, looking above.

“Probably,” said Ron. “They don’t look very vicious, but I suppose if they swooped down at once…”

“Even one aiming for our eyes can do a bit of damage,” said Mark. “Remember, this is supposed to be a protection for the stone.”

Harry had now crept to the door on the other end of the chamber. He tugged at the door but it refused to open.

“Let me try,” quipped Hermione, aiming her wand at the door and using the same charm she had used on Fluffy’s door that day

“ _Alohomora_.” She tried the door again, but to no avail. “I should have known, that was too easy.”

“The birds have to come into the picture. Why haven’t the attacked us?” Mark spoke, addressing Neville beside him. Harry was now squinting upwards, when suddenly he exclaimed,

“They’re not birds! They’re _keys_!”

“Keys?” Ron too examined the sight above him; yes, they were keys.

“You think one of them opens this door?” Mark asked. Harry didn’t answer and instead started searching for something in the room.

“Ha! Look - Brooms!” Harry said, “We’ve got to catch the key to the door!”

“But there are probably hundreds of them!”

Ron approached the door and examined it.

“Judging from the handle, its probably silver - a big old fashioned one like this lock,” he said to Harry, who had already clambered onto a broom. Taking his lead, the others were soon floating on broomsticks.

Ron squinted his eyes, trying to search for the key among the hundreds sweeping past him. He saw that the others were not faring much better than him, except for perhaps Harry. The Gryffindor seeker was flying above everyone else, speeding in short bursts. Ron privately marvelled at the manner in which Harry was handling the rickety broom.

“There! - Look - with bright blue wings!” Harry cried. “Its feathers have been crumpled on one side!”

‘How in the name of Merlin can he see that’ Ron cursed inwardly as he squinted to where Harry was pointing.

“How do we do this?” asked Neville. Ron looked towards the pudgy boy who had surprised him earlier tonight. Not only had he agreed to join Harry, Hermione, and him, but also managed to free them from the Devil’s Snare. He had privately doubted Neville’s place in Gryffindor along with his own, but now he thought it unfounded.

“As a team,” Mark answered. “We are in a closed room, so it will be possible to box the key towards a wall. Hermione, Neville, and I will corner from the sides, you can fly from the top, while Ron can handle the bottom.”

Ron swallowed the lump in his throat s his eyes met Mark’s. He gave a slight nod despite himself and positioned himself below the others.

The whole manoeuvre must not have taken more than half a minute, but it seemed longer to Ron. According to plan, the four of them moved to corner the winged key as Harry raced after it, managing to grab it near the wall. With a loud cheer, they all descended. Harry handed the key to Ron once they reached the door. Hands trembling, he inserted it into the slot and turned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus we are edging towards the final confrontation of the first year. You may have noticed I changed a couple of things here. To not use Neville to get past the Devil's Snare was a huge missed opportunity by JKR in my opinion. Here the plant is obviously beyond the Herbology OWL (perhaps NEWT) curriculum, and the only way Neville knows about it is his own experience and interest.
> 
> Similarly, having Fluffy go to sleep at just a hint of music is lazy writing, and playing the flute on your first time never sounds melodic. I hadn't thought about this scene when designing the characterization of Mark, but it seemed like a ripe opportunity to cash on. Rest assured, his guitar playing and musical skill isn't just a gimmicky thing but is part of his character arc throughout the three books.
> 
> Some of you may think I'm trying to undermine Hermione and her contribution to the story. Her character is an important one in canon (a bit too important but she is JKR's self-insert) and so will she be here. Her clash with Mark is a part of her character arc, and it will evolve over the course of the story. I am also trying to provide a narrative for Ron's insecurities and character, and how he views everyone else around him. This was implicit in canon but missed out by many (mostly the ones who saw the movies)
> 
> The next four chapters will finish year one. Again, I'll just be summarizing near canon events. Do enjoy the story, and I'll be happy to respond to any feedback you give me. Please review!


	18. Checkmate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I mentioned before the text in bold is borrowed directly from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone by JK Rowling.

4th June 1992

A Chessboard.

A bloody chessboard.

Mark groaned inwardly at the sight before him. If there was a game he hated, it was chess. Everyone had always assumed that because he got good grades, chess would be a game he liked. The truth was the exact opposite.

Firstly, chess required patience- something he didn’t like spending staring at marble pieces. Secondly, the thrill that other players got in trying to predict the moves of their opponent was non-existent for him; no use predicting when you are able to pluck the answer from the guy in front of you.

“What now?” Neville whispered

“We have to play across the board,” said Ron. “Look, there’s the door behind the white pieces.”

“How exactly do we do that?” Hermione asked.

“We’re going to have to be chessmen,” Mark answered, locking eyes with Ron. Giving him a slight nod, he proceeded to the black bishop in front of him. “You’re the best at this, Ron. Your call”

“What happens if we lose?” Neville asked the question hanging in the air. It was Harry who answered.

“Game over.”

“Ron, you should take the King, that way you can direct everyone else,” Mark supplied.

“We may need to sacrifice the Queen,” Ron added, nodding to Mark’s observation. Looking at the others, he continued, “Harry, you take the place of that Bishop, Hermione you take the place of that Rook. Neville, you’re the other Rook, and Mark you’re that Knight”

At these words, the corresponding black pieces turned their back and walked off the board. The five of them took their positions. Once they were on their squares, a white pawn moved forward two squares.

Ron swallowed the lump in his throat and started to direct his pieces.

As the game progressed, they got a demonstration of what would happen if they failed, when the white knight smashed a black pawn with her club. Ron got even more nervous at that and took his time considering his moves.

“Who do you think made this challenge?” Mark asked Hermione, who was a couple of squares beside him.

“Professor McGonagall, obviously. These pieces are all examples of animation.” She whispered confidently.

“Huh, you’re right. Didn’t strike me.” Mark turned his attention back to the chessboard to see Ron ordering a black pawn to move. The white Queen moved immediately in response.

“What in the bloody-” Ron said to himself. Mark also noticed the odd move.

“Did that move make any sense to you?”

“No,” Ron answered, exasperated. “It’s actually confusing me. It just forced the same situation in five moves instead of three. It’s just not making sense.”

“It's stalling,” Neville and Hermione answered simultaneously, surprising the other.

“Its meant to be a trap!” Harry exclaimed, coming to a realisation. “So whoever tries to play gets stuck in the game!”

“Wait - you mean the board isn’t trying to win, but lengthen the game?” Ron asked, and Hermione nodded vigorously. “Okay then. Let’s try this. E4!”

The White Queen moved three squares in response. Ron laughed in delight.

“Oh yes! Now, I’ve got you”

* * *

“You’re a real genius, Ron!”

 “It was nothing,” the boy in question replied, his cheeks flushed.

Ron wasn’t used to compliments. He certainly hadn’t received many at home, other than the usual ‘Oh look, you’ve grown.’ His mother always had some complaint about him. Sometimes it was how untidy he was, while at others it had to do with his impolite table manners. Not that he remembered anyone taking out the time to teach him any.

“It was not nothing!” Hermione argued passionately. “Do you realise that you just beat Professor McGonagall at chess, with a handicap of not being able to sacrifice _five pieces?_ ”

Ron gaped like a fish, turning redder by the moment. Harry seemed alarmed, while the others were holding their laughs. Finally, he managed to splutter a response.

“I - I wouldn’t have been able to win without - without Mark and your help. Eh, how about that?”

“We may have helped, but _you_ played the game. You are even unable to take a simple compliment!”

“Trust Granger to insult someone while complimenting them,” Mark whispered to Neville; Hermione heard and turned to him. Before she could say anything further, Harry interrupted.

“The next door then?”

Everyone was jolted back to the reality of what they were doing here. All sobered up, they proceeded to the door. Mark voiced the question on his mind.

“What do you reckon is next?”

“Well Professor McGonagall put in the chess set, and Flitwick must have charmed the keys. Sprout must have put in the plant-” Harry thought aloud

“Devils Snare,” supplied Neville.

“Right, Devil’s Snare, and whatever Dumbledore’s protection is will be last. So that leaves Quirrell and Snape,” he finished with a distaste.

Looking at the others who had their wands drawn, he nodded before slowly opening the door. It was pitch dark inside. The first thing that hit them was the smell- smell which Harry recognised immediately.

“Troll,” he hissed violently. “Its another troll!” They could make out the Troll’s silhouette in the faint light.

“What do you mean another troll?” Mark asked. “Do you mean the one at the Halloween feast?”

“Yes, we fought that one in the bathroom,” Ron said. “Should’ve gotten more than fifteen points for that.”

“And how did you beat that troll?” Mark asked, curious about the events.

“Guys,” Neville said softly, but no one paid any attention.

“They threw rocks at the troll to confuse it, and Harry climbed onto its back and put his wand up the troll’s nose. Ron levitated the troll’s club in the air and dropped it right onto its head. They were very brave” Hermione finished with a hint of pride.

“Uh, Guys,” Neville spoke again, a little louder this time.

“So that’s how we do it? Go for the club?” Mark asked, preparing himself for a fight.

“Guys!” Neville now hissed with enough force to draw their attention. “It’s been put to sleep already. Listen!”

The four quieted down and paid attention. Surely enough they could make out the soft snores.

“That’s a relief,” Ron said, breaking the silence. “You reckon Snape did it?” he asked more seriously.

“Must be. Let’s go,” Harry said, his voice betraying his nervousness. They proceeded towards Neville who had managed to find the door to the next chamber.

* * *

Pulling the door open, the sight that met their eyes was pretty anticlimactic. Just a table with seven differently shaped bottles.

“Snape’s,” remarked Harry.

“Seems tame for the greasy git,” Ron observed. Mark nodded in agreement.

Slightly relaxed, they crossed over the threshold. As soon as they all were inside the room, a fire sprang up in the doorway behind them. It was a sickly purple in colour. At the same time, black flames shot up in the doorway leading forward.

“This seems more like it,” Mark said to no one in particular.

“Look at this!” Hermione whispered, her attention drawn to a rolled parchment beside the bottle. Flattening it on the table, the five of them read its contents.

**_Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,_ **

**_Two of us will help you, whichever you would find,_ **

**_One among us seven will let you move ahead,_ **

**_Another will transport the drinker back instead,_ **

**_Two among our number hold only nettle wine,_ **

**_Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line._ **

**_Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore,_ **

**_To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:_ **

**_First, however slyly the poison tries to hide_ **

**_You will always find some on nettle wine’s left side;_ **

**_Second, different are those who stand at either end,_ **

**_But if you would move onward, neither is your friend;_ **

**_Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,_ **

**_Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;_ **

**_Fourth, the second left and the second on the right_ **

**_Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight._ **

To say Ron was flabbergasted would be an understatement. A poem? Since when did Snape start writing poetry? He looked at the others; Neville face held the same confusion as his, while Harry’s also had a sense of fear mixed in. Mark seemed to be looking at the bottles and muttering, and to Ron’s amazement, Hermione’s face held a hint of a smile.

“It’s a puzzle - a logic puzzle,” Hermione said, her eyebrows now furrowing and her mind clearly racing to solve it. She began pacing down the length of the table, muttering to herself. Ron took a step back to let her work in peace; Harry and Neville followed his cue. Mark, on the other hand, moved closer and peered at the bottles.

“Seven bottles: three poison, two wine-” Hermione said

“-one to go forward, one to go back,” Mark finished. “It can’t be that simple.”

“You’ve figured it out?” Hermione asked pointedly. Mark shook his head before replying,

“No, but it’s solvable.” Hermione nodded at that before turning her attention back to the parchment. After a few minutes, she spoke again, drawing out her words.

“The smallest bottle will let us go forward - through the black fire.” Her voice, however, showed no sign of solving the puzzle. She picked up the bottle in question and showed it to the others. It held enough for only a single swallow.

“Which one will let you back through the purple flames?” asked Harry. Hermione pointed at another rounded bottle at the right end of the line.

“Good, you guys drink that and go back-” He couldn’t finish his words as both Ron and Neville began to object loudly. Mark who was still examining the other bottles, suddenly moved to Hermione and snatched the small bottle from her hand.

“No!” Harry shouted as he saw Mark move the bottle towards his mouth; it stopped just near his nose. They watched as he sniffed it, seemingly searching for something.

“Hermione,” Mark spoke slowly, “isn’t Nettle wine a diluting agent?”

“Yes, in certain cases. It allows certain potions to be diluted without reducing their effectiveness. The most common use would be for- for antidotes,” she answered, her face lighting up at each word she spoke. “Of course! That’s what we can do!”

“What do you mean?” asked Neville.

“We can dilute the potion in the smallest bottle-” Hermione answered

“-and have enough for all of us to go through! See, we can all go through!” Ron said triumphantly to Harry.

“But-” Harry tried to argue, but Neville interrupted.

“No Harry, we won’t be abandoning you now.” Harry looked at his friends who had the same determination on their face. Realising he was outvoted, he sighed and nodded.

Mark immediately went to the table and poured the contents of the smallest bottle into the largest, and mixed it around. One by one they all took a gulp and shuddered.

“Eeeugh, it’s like drinking ice,” Ron remarked.

“Like bad ice,” Mark supplied.

“Ready then?” Harry said drawing his wand from his robes.

“Let’s go”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter done! Onto the final confrontation of year one with you-know-who. As you can see there are further deviations from canon in this chapter.
> 
> Firstly the chess match in PS was one of the best parts of the book, especially since it showcases Ron's strengths. However, from a story point of view having a chessboard as a trap doesn't make sense; unless McGonagall wanted to keep the player occupied in a pointless match. I wanted to showcase that in some way and make sure all five of them end up in the final chamber- which has repercussions on the characters and the story later.
> 
> As for Snape's test, I like to think that a man so full of himself will not use just a moderately difficult logic puzzle. Its purpose is brilliant since it forces just one person through, breaking up a possible team of intruders (exactly what happens in PS). But he is a Potions master, and this is something he would likely do. Most fics that show someone else going in with Harry that I've read go for the self-filling bottle or something similar, which is a little too convenient.
> 
> It might seem that I'm making Mark steal some of Hermione and Ron's credit by having him offer alternative paths. We don't see Harry interfering in either the chess match or the puzzle in PS. But PS Harry is an underconfident guy who has experienced years of abuse, so he keeps to himself whenever someone else takes charge confidently (mostly Hermione), something that's still a part of him by the end of DH. Mark is a pampered and curious kid, so he'll never completely stand in the sidelines.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please Review and look out for the next one.


	19. The Dark Lord

4th June 1992

Harry entered the final chamber wand drawn, accompanied by his friends. He was expecting Snape; perhaps even fearing Voldemort to be present. However, he had not been expecting Quirinus Quirrell.

“You?!” cried Harry, followed by a loud gasp by Hermione.

A spell flew from behind him following a loud “ _Flipendo!_ ” from Mark. Quirrell quickly sidestepped it an snapped his fingers. Ropes sprang out of thin air and wrapped themselves around the five Gryffindors. They tumbled onto the floor like bowling pins, with Neville knocking his head on the stone wall behind as Hermione fell on him.

“So, you brought along your nosy friends” Quirrell smirked. “I had wondered if you might show up Potter, but to bring your friends down here to die-” he let the sentence hang ominously. Harry’s mind was reeling with a million thoughts, and the confusion must have shown on his face.

“Surprised to see me then?”

“I - I thought - Snape -”

“Severus?” Quirrell asked in a crisp, amused tone with no hint of his usual stutter. “Yes, he does seem the suspicious type. So useful to have him draw attention.”

“But - but Snape was jinxing Harry’s broom - unless, unless it was you,” Hermione interjected, all the parts finally fitting the puzzle in her head.

“Indeed, Miss Granger. You knocked me over on the way to set fire to Snape’s cloak, who incidentally had been trying to save Potter using the counter-curse. It’s a shame really, that a bright witch like you is a Mudblood”

“Don’t you dare call her that!” Ron snarled, struggling even more against his ropes. Mark tried to nudge Neville with his foot but only got a soft groan in return.

“Ah, the loyal Weasley. I admit I’m impressed with the way you managed to subdue the troll on Halloween. Excellent use of the Levitation Charm, by the way.” He paused before adding mockingly, “Five points to Gryffindor”

“You let the troll in?” Harry asked, still not fully believing Quirrell.

“I would like nothing more than go over my plan with you Potter, but sadly I do not have much time. Now, wait quietly. I need to examine this interesting mirror”

Harry’s gaze followed Quirrell’s, and he realised what was standing behind Quirrell.

“The Mirror of Erised,” Hermione muttered in awe.

* * *

“The mirror is the key to getting the Stone,” Quirrell pondered, talking to himself. “Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this…but he’s in London…I’ll be far away by the time he gets back”

Mark watched as the turbaned professor paced in front of the large gold mirror. From the looks of it Harry, Ron, and Hermione were acquainted with the mirror. The three had been onto the mystery from the very beginning; he had not even known about the attempt on Harry’s life.

“I saw you and Snape in the forest-” Harry said eagerly, in an almost comical fashion, as if he was-

‘He’s trying to stall him,’ Mark realised. He looked at his fellow Gryffindors. Neville still seemed dazed, while Hermione was paralysed with shock. Ron was still trying to struggle against his ropes, which seemed to be tightening against his body.

“Yes,” said Quirrell, still paying attention at the mirror. “He was onto me by that time,-”

“Yeah, you’re clearly not as clever as you thought,” Mark said in a loud voice, hoping to provoke a reaction from the Professor.

“-He had suspected me all along. Even tried to frighten me, as if he could - when I have the Dark Lord on my side…” Quirrell continued, ignoring the interruption. He looked again in the mirror, his face irritated and impatient

“I see the stone…I’m presenting it to my Lord…but where is it?”

‘Shit,’ thought Mark, ‘if he gets the Stone, he won’t hesitate to kill us. If only I could get out of these ropes,’ he wondered, when it hit him like a ton of brick. _Edwin’s knife_

“But Snape seems to hate me so much.” Harry continued to interrupt Quirrell and gave Mark a pleading look. Mark bent his legs, trying to reach the dagger on his ankle. He gave Harry a wink.

“Oh, he does,” Quirrell replied, “Didn’t you know he was at Hogwarts with your father? They loathed each other. But he doesn’t want you dead.”

 Mark found the handle and slowly pulled the knife in his hand. Flipping it he began to saw through the ropes binding him.

“I don’t understand, is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?” Quirrell was back to pondering about the stone.

“But I heard you cry, I - I thought Snape was threatening you”

“It is often difficult for me to follow my master’s instruction. The Dark Lord is a great wiza-”

“Voldemort was _in_ the castle?!” Mark exclaimed, momentarily stunned to continue cutting the ropes. This drew Quirrell’s attention, and he looked at Mark with anger and amusement.

“You are brave, boy. And foolish to take the Dark Lord’s name.” Quirrell turned back to the mirror before continuing,

“He is a great wizard. He taught me that there is no good or evil, only power, and those too weak to see it. He has tasked me with this job, but I do not understand what I’m supposed to do?”

Mark finished cutting through the ropes around his torso and quickly slashed the ones around his knees. He crept slowly towards a now expectant Ron and started cutting through his ropes.

“Quickly,” Ron whispered, eager to be free. Mark hushed, then spoke in his ears,

“When I say, grab everyone and run out of the chamber. I’ll stab the bastard to slow him down and join you.”

“But the stone...” Ron tried to argue.

“Is obviously safer in the Mirror. Its Dumbledore’s protection, so it should hold” he said. Then something happened that sent a chill down their spine.

“Use the boy…Use Potter…” said a raspy voice, emanating from Quirrell himself. Mark went prone as Quirrell turned to face Harry.

“Yes - Potter - come here. Dumbledore must surely have instructed you on using the mirror”. Snapping his fingers again, the ropes around Harry disappeared.

“No!” Hermione seemed to have found her voice again.

“Quiet silly girl,” Quirrell snapped, before drawing his wand and pointing it towards her. “Come now, Potter, you don’t want your friends to get hurt do you.”

‘Shit, shit, shit’ Mark thought, as he began sawing through Ron’s rope. His plan had to change.

* * *

Harry got slowly to his feet. He didn’t want to co-operate with Quirrell, but he didn’t want Hermione to get hurt either.

“Hurry up boy. Look in the mirror and tell me what you see.” Harry walked towards him, his mind racing faster than the Hogwarts Express.

‘I need to lie. I can look into the mirror and lie about what I see’ he thought. He desperately hoped Mark had a plan since the boy had signalled him about it.

Harry closed his eyes as he reached the mirror, steeling himself. He breathed in the funny smell coming from Quirrell’s turban. Finally, once in front of the mirror, he opened his eyes.

He saw his reflection, pale and scared. Then it smiled, putting its hand into its pocket and pulling out a blood-red stone. It winked and put it back into the pocket, and Harry felt something drop into his own at the same time. He’d gotten the real stone

“What do you see Potter?” Quirrell asked impatiently. Harry tried not to think about the stone and lied

“I - I see myself as Head Boy. I - I’ve won the House Cup for Gryffindor,” he borrowed from his friend's experience.

“He lies! ... He lies!” came the screeching voice from Quirrell again. Could he read his mind?

“Potter! Tell me the truth! What did you see! -” Quirrell was interrupted by the high voice again.

“Let me speak to him…face-to-face”

“Master, but you’re not strong enou-”

“I have strength enough for this…”

Harry suddenly realised who the voice belonged to - Quirrell had called it Master…He watched transfixed as the Professor began unwrapping the turban on his head. Quirrell turned slowly when he was finished, and he heard his friends gasp behind him.

On the back of Quirrell’s bald head was another face, the most terrible face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and snake-like slits for nostrils.

“Harry Potter…” it whispered. “See what I’ve become?” the face said. Harry’s leg had turned to lead, and he couldn’t seem to move.

“Mere shadow and vapour…. only able to take form in another’ body. But then, there have always been those faithful like Quirrell here…” It gave a smirk, before continuing,

“Unicorn blood has managed to give me some strength… Indeed you did see me in the forbidden forest. Once I have the Elixir, I will be able to take form again. Now… why don’t you give me the stone in your pocket?”

Harry shook his head, still unable to speak.

“Come on, Potter. Don’t be a fool. Hand over the stone or you friends-” Voldemort said, turning towards the bound children, and Harry followed his gaze.

-will die...?” the words trailed off in a tone of surprise. Harry saw his friends missing; they must have escaped.

Before he could think anything else however, something came streaking past him and slammed into Quirrell, who gave a loud shriek of pain. It was Mark.

“ _RUN!!_ ” his friend exclaimed, trying to pry the wand from Quirrell’s hand and Harry found his legs moving. When he reached halfway to the entrance, he tripped. His legs were bound again.

He turned back and saw Quirrell kicking Mark in the gut. Even though his friend was strong, the professor was a full-grown wizard and Mark fell to the floor.

“You broke my wand, boy,” Quirrell said as he kicked Mark again. Suddenly the face on the back of Quirrell’s head disappeared; instead, his eyes became like those of Voldemort.

He began walking towards Harry like a snake hunting its prey. His thigh was bleeding from where Mark had stabbed him, but his face showed no recognition for the pain.

“Trying to escape Potter? Just like your parents…They died begging for mercy…”

“LIAR!” Harry shouted.

“How touching.” Voldemort/Quirrell smiled. “I always value bravery…Yes, boy, your parents were brave…I killed your father first…he put up a courageous fight…but your mother…your mother needn’t have died…she died trying to keep you alive…Now give me the Stone, unless you want her to have died in vain”

Harry’s insides went cold. He’d just learnt more about his parent’s death than he had known before. Remembering their image in the mirror, he violently shook his head

“NEVER!”

Voldemort/Quirrell smirked, then snapped his fingers again,

“Crucio!” he said, almost casually

Harry felt like his entire body was being stabbed by a thousand white-hot knives. He screamed in agony, tears flowing from his eyes. Voldemort gave a cackling laugh, which Harry recognised from his dreams.

“I haven’t had such fun in years! Nevertheless, time is running short, so I’ll be taking the stone”

He moved towards Harry’s pocket, intending to grab the stone. Harry, still trembling tried to grab his arm to stop him. The stone in Harry’s pocket slipped out on the floor beside him

They struggled for a few moments, and to Harry’s surprise, Quirrell cried out, drawing his arm back.

“It burns! Master, I cannot hold him - my hand burns!” Quirrell’s eyes showed fear before Voldemort took control again. Harry noticed the stone silently sliding across the floor towards a now conscious Mark.

“Looks like your mudblood mother is still protecting you” Voldemort spoke, standing over Harry, unaware of the stone’ movement.

“No worries, I’ll just finish the job I started ten years ago.” He raised his hand, towards Harry’s chest and spoke,

“Avada-”

“HEY SNAKE FACE!” Mark shouted from across the room. “Looking for this?” He held the red stone in his hand before starting to run towards the flame door.

Voldemort, clearly angry at this, started walking towards Mark. Harry, realising the effect that Voldemort’s touching him had had, grabbed onto his foot.

Voldemort howled in pain, and conjured ropes around Mark again, who tripped. Kicking Harry’s hand, he hissed.

“You’ll both die for this.”

Harry saw Voldemort raise his hand to curse Mark. His fellow teammate, however, drew his hand back and threw something towards the flame door. Harry’s trained eye followed the path of the Stone as it hit the flames with the accuracy of a well-thrown Quaffle.

* * *

“NOOOO!” Voldemort screamed helplessly as the room shook with the force from the explosion of the red projectile.

Mark grinned. His aim had been true. On seeing Voldemort’s face, however, the smile was replaced by primal fear.

He had never seen fury like this before. A chill went down his spine as he realised just why Voldemort had been feared by all wizards. The red eyes glistened with anger, and something happened that Mark had not expected - he felt a strong push on his mind.

Voldemort was attacking him with legilimency, most likely to inflict pain beyond measure.

‘Well that was a mistake,’ Mark thought, grinning inwardly. He pulled Voldemort’s mind into his own, much to the surprise of his attacker, and imagined it being sucked into a black hole.

“Impossible!” Voldemort whispered to himself before the mental defences of the Dark Lord were rammed into by a mere child. The attacks started going back and forth, the two legilimens battling in their minds.

It barely lasted a minute, but in that time, Mark was now on the verge of exhaustion. He didn’t know if he could hold off Voldemort any longer. Thankfully, he didn’t have to.

Mark saw Harry physically launch himself at Voldemort, knocking him down. He held his palms on the Dark Lords face, who cried out in pain.

“ _Aaaaarghhh_ ” the cries tapered off into one of fear, which Mark recognised belonged to Quirrell.

Suddenly the screams stopped as Harry was thrown backwards. A black mist emerged from the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor and lingered above the limp body. It was Voldemort.

“You have great potential, boy. You’ve thwarted my plans, and you will pay for it with your body.”

The mist approached Mark, who was rooted in shock at this declaration. It hovered above him, about to enter when it recoiled from striking an invisible barrier.

“You shall not hurt one of my students, Tom” spoke a cold powerful voice.

Albus Dumbledore had arrived.

“Dumbledore,” Voldemort said in a frustrated voice. “You’ve finally arrived.”

Dumbledore waved his wand around, and a large shimmering ball of light seemed to enclose the black mist. Voldemort, however, passed right through.

“You think you can contain the great Lord Voldemort?! Until we meet again, Dumbledore,” the mist said before passing through one of the stone walls.

Dumbledore relaxed after a moment, dropping his hand to his side. Mark saw him rush towards Harry, who was still twitching slightly.

“Harry, are you alright?” Dumbledore asked in a kind voice. Harry sat up and answered shakily

“I’m fine sir. But - But the Stone - the Stone was destroyed, sir”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two more chapters until summer. This one will have some long reaching effect in the story, especially since this is the first interaction between Voldemort and Mark. Also, unlike in canon, Ron and Hermione (and Neville) have actually encountered Voldemort now as opposed to the final battle when they're of age. This will affect their personality as the story progresses, diverting slightly from canon.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please review and look out for the next one.


	20. The Flamels

7th June 1992

Harry slowly stirred. His blurry vision could make out that it was bright. ‘What-?’ He tried to remember what happened, and after a moment it struck him. He jerked, and a kind voice interrupted him.

“Calm down, Harry.” It was Dumbledore. “The dangers over, my boy. You’re in the Hospital Wing,” he said, gingerly putting on Harry’s glasses on his eyes.

“Sir, the Stone, I - I tried to protect it, but -”

“It was destroyed. Yes, you did tell me that before you passed out. Gave me quite a scare actually. Turns out it was magical exhaustion.”

“Sir, what about Ron, and Hermione and -”

“All well my boy. Thanks to your friend Mr Smith’s quick thinking, Mr Weasley, Mr Longbottom, and Ms Granger were able to escape. Mr Weasley volunteered to stay by the trap door and inform me of the situation when I arrived.”

“What about Mark?” Harry now asked, fearing the answer.

“He was badly injured. He had a lot of bruises along with magical exhaustion like you, but nothing more serious. He is currently asleep, just over there,” Dumbledore said looking towards another bed currently surrounded by curtains.

“Do not worry Harry. You and your friends are all safe and sound. That, I believe, is the most important thing.” Dumbledore said in a reassuring manner.

“But sir, what about your friend - Nicolas Flamel -” Harry stammered out guiltily.

“Oh, you know about Nicolas then?” said Dumbledore sounding a bit amused. “It seems you did do the thing properly, didn’t you?” He took a pause before continuing,

“Well, Nicolas, his wife, and I had a little chat - well actually it's better you hear it from them directly. I’ll be back shortly,” he got up and left.

Harry froze. They were here? Were they here to scold him? Express their disappointment in him? The thoughts couldn’t seem to leave him alone when he heard someone arrive. Panic set in, only to be dissipated when it turned out to be Ron, Neville, and Hermione.

“Harry you’re awake!” Hermione cried on spotting him, jogging over to him. Ron and Neville followed big grins on their faces.

“How are you feeling mate?” Ron asked, his voice carrying a hint of worry quite unlike him.

Harry just nodded. Ron clapped him on the shoulder lightly, while Hermione began to speak

“Oh, we were so worried. I - I still can’t believe that it was Quirrell and that he - he had - thing on his head. I - I thought he was going to kill us.” She finished, almost in whispers.

Ron and Neville nodded silently, their minds reliving the experience of that night. Harry spoke, in a voice laced with guilt.

“I shouldn’t have asked you guys to come in with me, it was too dangerous”

It was Neville who replied, in the sternest voice that Harry had ever heard.

“In case you don’t remember Harry, you didn’t ask us. We offered. And I do not think that anyone here regrets coming with you down through that trapdoor”

“And anyways how were you going to cross the chessboard without Ron’s help?” Hermione said, in a scolding tone. Ron tried to look at the stone ceiling in order to hide the blush on his freckled face.

“But what good did it do? The Stone was destroyed. What will Mr Flamel say?”

“He would say that he is extremely impressed and frankly surprised at the display of skills and the courage shown by five young witches and wizards,” came a rather crisp voice from the doorway.

Harry turned to see the newcomers. Standing with Professor Dumbledore was a couple, who looked like they were in their early sixties. The man was dressed in a prim grey robe, while the lady was dressed in deep scarlet ones. They walked over briskly to Harry’s bed.

“Well hello, Mr Potter. It is good to finally meet you. I’m Nicolas, and this is my lovely wife Perenelle,” the new man said. “I wish to sincerely thank you,” he paused looking at the surprised faces of the three other kids, “All four of you. You have shown tremendous fibre in your efforts to protect our property, although I do wish it hadn’t come to it,” he finished, with a pointed look at Dumbledore.

“I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t wish for the stone to-”

“Oh, Mr Potter, didn’t you listen? We’re proud of you. You went above and beyond what was expected of an eleven-year-old wizard. It was more important that the Stone not fall into the hands of dark forces, and you did just that.”

“But sir, won't - won’t you die?” The couple shared a soft smile, and it was the woman who answered

“Mr Potter, the elixir acts in essence to stop the ageing of the body. Even without the elixir, we will live for year or two, and we have enough elixir stored for a few more.”

Ron and Neville had an amazed look on their faces, while Hermione’s was showing delight at learning this new information. Harry, however, was still feeling guilty. He didn’t want to be responsible for anybody’s death.

“To one as young as you, Mr Potter, death may seem incredible, but Nicolas and I have been alive for a long time,” she paused to take a deep breath before continuing, “A very, _very_ , long time.”

There was a long silence, in which the four Gryffindors digested this wisdom. Dumbledore broke the silence,

“Mr Weasley, Mr Longbottom, Ms Granger. I believe it is time for you to have your lunch in the great hall. I’m sure Mr Potter would like you to visit later.” The three nodded and left silently.

Mr Flamel seemed to remember something and spoke,

“Albus, I think we should now convey our thanks to the fifth member of Mr Potters party.”

* * *

Mark had been awake for the last few minutes. He had heard the Flamels talk with Harry, and could now hear them walking towards his bed.

The footsteps stopped just outside his curtains, and he heard hushed voices.

“My friend, will it be alright if I returned to Harry? I believe there are still questions the poor boy wants answers to, and I wish to make myself available to answer them,” spoke Dumbledore.

“Of course, Albus, we understand,” came the voice of a woman. Mark heard Dumbledore’s footsteps walk away before the curtains were drawn open. He decided to greet his visitors

“Hello.”

“Ah, Mr Smith. You’re awake,” the man, who must be Nicholas Flamel spoke. “I hear you have had quite the adventure”

“Nothing I’d like to repeat sir,” Mark replied.

“You showed great courage, Mr Smith. I thank you.” Nicolas said in the sincerest tone.

“The stone sir - I -” Mark began. He didn’t know how to put up what he wanted to say.

“As I said to Mr Potter, we still have a year or two to live. The Stone only delayed the inevitable,” answered Nicolas

Mark nodded silently, then voiced the question on his mind

“How - How does the elixir work? How exactly? Can it like cure - cure diseases, for examples.”

Both Nicolas and Perenelle smiled at this. It was the latter who answered.

“In a manner of speaking. We don’t fully know how the stone exactly worked.” She took a pause. “Actually, that was the primary reason why we still used it. We were trying to conduct experiments with the Elixir. We did manage to extract a few cures from it, like the one for Dragon Pox.”

“Could it - could it work on non-magical humans?” Mark asked hesitantly. “My father. He has Leukaemia. I wondered if there was a cure.”

Nicolas’ and Perenelle’s face fell a little, before taking on a sympathetic visage.

“As far as we can tell, the magic in the elixir will not react kindly with a non-magical being. None of the potions generally do,” Nicolas said. “And we will likely not know,” he added after a moment.

Mark went into deep thought, considering his options. Perenelle seemed to recognise his dilemma.

“Mr Smith, is there something you wish to ask us?”

Mark looked into her eyes and _gleaned_ with as much subtlety as possible. He needed to be sure, and he did not wish to alert them. Satisfied with what he saw, he voiced his question.

“What if we can know? If the elixir can be used to cure cancer?”

At seeing the confused faces of his visitors, Mark slowly got out of his bed and walked towards the chair on which his clothes and shoes were kept. Picking up the left shoe, he returned to bed. Perenelle seemed to have realised what he was about to say, and her face took on an expression of awe.

Putting his hand into the sole of the shoe, Mark removed a blood red stone and placed it onto his bed.

“How-?” came the spluttering question from Nicolas finally.

“I didn’t want to destroy the stone, but I needed Voldemort to think I had. So, I transfigured a chocolate frog in my pocket into a reddish crystal and then threw it into the cursed fire.” Mark explained.

“But the Dark Lord is an accomplished Legilimens, how could-” Nicolas said disbelievingly.

“You’re a Natural Legilimens, aren’t you?” Perenelle asked suddenly. She seemed to have realised Mark reading her mind before. Mark simply nodded.

“Once I found out about the Stone from Harry, I couldn’t stop thinking about dad,” he said remembering the events of that night. “Once I saw the stone on the floor, I summoned it to myself. But I also needed to save Harry, and had to distract Voldemort”

Nicolas and Perenelle shared a look. They were clearly impressed by Mark’s actions. Picking up the stone to examine it, Perenelle asked Mark,

“You want to find a cure for your father? What makes you think you can do it?”

“Well, I had intended to have the Stone examined. Using non-magical technology, I mean. Under the microscope, possibly a spectrograph, standard chemical tests etc. Also, if I could isolate whatever compounds are active in the elixir, it would be possible to see the effects directly on the blood cells, and-”

“You wish to see how it would react with blood? Blood magic is a very Dark Magic, Mr Smith and not to be trifled-”

“No no no, I meant _inject_ it into the bloodstream” Mark clarified. “Since the elixir will not be subjected to the digestive tract, it might react in a different way-” he tapered off.

“Brilliant!” Nicolas said, “Injecting! We never even considered it,” he said to an equally intrigued Perenelle.

“Well, I hope that helps,” Mark said, feeling a little awkward now.

The couple looked at each other. Nicolas and Perenelle seemed to be having a silent conversation for a while. Finally, Nicolas spoke.

“Mr Smith, there is something more that I - we need to ask of you,” he said.

Mark nodded, a little confused. Nicolas continued,

“Since you clearly have a plan to proceed along with your idea, we wish to offer you a chance to work with us on this.”

Now it was Mark’s turn to be gobsmacked. _Work_ with the legendary Flamels?

“You may be young, but as you clearly don’t have a bias towards magical means,” he explained further. “You come off as the inventive sort, and we wish to offer you this opportunity.”

“Yes!” Mark replied immediately. Perenelle smiled, then fished out a small crystal flask from her robes. Inside was a pearly rose liquid.

“Here is your first sample then,” she said, handing over the flask to Mark, who took it gingerly. “Do take your time and don’t hurry at all. It is important that your studies don’t suffer because of this”

Mark nodded slowly, trying to keep his emotions in check. He failed, and swiftly gave the witch in front of him a tight hug.

“Thank you”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we have it. The Stone is still around and is sure to affect future events. The fact that they faced Voldemort will affect Ron and Hermione, and affect their general attitude towards the danger and adventures that they get up to.
> 
> Fun fact: Mark saving the Stone is the first plot point that I had envisioned while developing this story. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Feedback is welcome, so please review


	21. End of the Year

13th June 1992

Harry shuffled silently towards the Great Hall alongside Ron, who was chatting animatedly with Seamus. Tonight was the End of the Year Feast, and looking at the green and silver banners around him, he was reminded again of the hundred and fifty points that he had cost Gryffindor.

Added with Snape’s biased attitude over the course of the year and their recent defeat against Ravenclaw, Gryffindor was now dead last in the race for the house cup. Most of the older students had by now forgotten about the incident, but the guilt was still fresh in his mind, particularly due to the conversation he had with Professor Dumbledore and the Flamels.

The fact that he had rushed in without a proper plan and could’ve easily caused the death of one or more of his friends lay heavily on his mind. Not considering the personal failure he considered in being the cause of the Flamels impending death. Professor Dumbledore had told him about the sacrifice his mother had made all those years ago and how it had protected him against Voldemort’s touch.

His musings were interrupted with the arrival of the said Headmaster in the Great Hall, which immediately silenced the chattering students.

“My dear students. Another year gone!” Dumbledore said in his usual cheerful tone. “And what a year it has been! I hope that we all have succeeded in teaching you something new, be it magic or not. After all, that is the true essence of learning.”

Dumbledore raised his goblet, and everyone else followed suit.

“With the end of this year, let us all say goodbye to our oldest pupils. May they encounter prosperity on the path that they choose!” he addressed to the graduating students to a loud applause.

“Next, we have the House Cup which needs awarding. The points stand thus: In fourth place, Gryffindor, with eight hundred and forty-seven points; in third, Hufflepuff, with nine hundred and twenty-one points; in second place, Ravenclaw, with nine hundred and eighty-three; and finally Slytherin, with one thousand one hundred and forty-two points.”

To Harry’s surprise, the Slytherin table did not break out in cheers. Instead, the students started banging their goblets on the table in unison. Seeing the feral expression on Draco Malfoy’s face made Harry feel a bit sick. However, Professor Dumbledore wasn’t done yet.

“Yes, Yes, well done, Slytherin.” He waited for the din to subside before continuing, “However, some recent events have yet to be taken into account.” The room went very still at this

“First - to Mr Ronald Weasley…” At this, the entire Gryffindor table looked towards the boy in question before turning back to the headmaster.

 “… for what can be considered the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has ever seen, I must award Gryffindor fifty points.”

Thunderous applause followed from not just the Gryffindor table, but also from the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables. Harry looked at the Head table to see Snape scowling and Professor McGonagall with a strong hint of pride on her usually reserved face. Once the applause died down, Dumbledore continued.

“Secondly, to Miss Hermione Granger… for the use of brilliant deduction skills and the use of logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor House fifty points.”

The Gryffindors cheered were the loudest yet, with some of the students banging their fists on the table. Harry saw that Hermione had buried her face in her arms. The energy at their table was beyond anything, for they were now second in the ranking.

“Next - to Mr Neville Longbottom… for excellent observational skills and unflinching loyalty, I award Gryffindor fifty points.”

Another round of cheering and celebrating followed; Neville, who had been ridiculed all year was now being hugged and praised by everyone around him. It took a long time for the cheers to die down.

“Finally - to Mr Harry Potter and Mr Mark Smith…” Dumbledore continued. His voice was now heavy and serious.

“… for pure nerve, outstanding courage, and bravery worthy of Godric Gryffindor himself, I award them each seventy-five points.”

The hall exploded. The cheering and banging were coming not just from Gryffindor, but from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff as well. The Slytherin winning streak was finally broken. Harry was currently being mobbed with pats and hugs by his enthusiastic housemates. Mark, who face was screwed in concentration, was receiving the same treatment.

“I think we need a little change of decoration,” Dumbledore remarked with a smile before clapping his hands once. Instantly, the green and silver all around them became scarlet and gold. Snape had the most unpleasant and forced smile on his face as he shook Professor McGonagall’s hand, who was smirking smugly. Once the applause died down, Dumbledore spoke again.

“Now that’s done, lets tuck in.” As soon as he said those words, the feast appeared on the table. Harry was amazed to say that it looked even grander than the one at the start of the year. Or maybe it was just his joy that coloured his perception.

As he started piling food onto his plate, he noticed that Mark was still thinking. In fact, the boy had not even touched the food on the table. Suddenly he burst out into a small laugh before beginning to serve himself.

Harry looked around to see if anyone else had noticed; Ron, Hermione, and Neville seemed equally confused at this behaviour.

“Wha’s the ma’der?” Ron asked, with his mouth full.

“Well we won the House Cup thanks to you Ron,” Mark said with a hint of amusement.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we won by five points, right?” Mark asked, barely containing his laughter. Harry nodded, still confused.

“Remember, Professor _Quirrell_ awarded Ron five points for his levitation charm.”

* * *

20th June 1992

Mark looked out the window of the compartment at the scenery speeding by. The last two weeks at Hogwarts had passed away just like that.

After the conversation with the Flamels, he had spent every free moment in either the Library or in the Restricted Section in the Come and Go Room reading everything about alchemy and the Philosophers Stone. Much was quite advanced for him, but he understood the gist of many things.

He also copied down stuff to study during the summer, along with the summer homework that they were supposed to do. Sadly, he couldn’t take any books outside the Room of Requirement, as he now called it; it was one of the few limitations of the Room.

The exam results had come in during the week; he had forgotten all about them in all the craziness. He had gotten fairly decent grades in everything. He’d tied for first with Hermione (she was back to scowling at him) in Transfiguration and Charms, with Harry (who had been surprised at his own marks) in Defence, and gotten in the top five (he didn’t bother to check further) in Potions. He had passed everything else and even managing to get an E in Herbology (thanks to Neville, who was grateful for Mark’s help at his own A in Potions).

Fred, George, and Neville had promised him to try and practice their skills when Mark had convinced them to borrow the instruments over the summer. Neville was the most hesitant, probably due to the stern nature of his grandmother. The twins had given him an invitation to their house, but Mark had politely declined; he didn’t want to spend any further time away from his dad.

Once the express reached Kings Cross, he said his farewells to his friends. Even some random older student called him out; Dumbledore’s announcement at the feast seemed to have helped his popularity some.

He hurried out the barrier as quickly as he could, the thoughts of his father weighing him down with guilt. Mark looked around and found him, leaning on one of the nearby columns. With his feet moving of their own accord, he managed to get to his dad in a flash.

“Champ!” John said as he wrapped his son in a bear hug. “You’ve gotten heavy”

“Is that the first thing you say to your son who’s been away for five months?”

“Well, it’s the truth. What are they feeding you lot at the school?” John asked suspiciously. Mark tried to shrug it off.

“Well, I did find the kitchens with the help of my mates,” he answered, “and I may have taken advantage of that fact.”

John laughed out loud, and thumping his son on his back, picked up Mark’s trunk.

“You’ll have to tell me all about it then. How was your year? What shenanigans did you get up to?”

“Oh, you have no idea” Mark muttered to himself

* * *

3rd July 1992

_Dear Marky-boy,_

_We write back to tell you that yes, we have been raising quite the hell at home. Be sure to be on the lookout from our mother. She is right upset at someone corrupting her sons further. She refused to believe that we chose this rocker lifestyle._

_Ickle Gin-Gin was quite fascinated with your Bass, but we gather she is looking forward to her meeting with the legendary Harry Potter. She’s been pestering Ron about tales of his ‘adventures with Harry.’ Gred heard him tell her about one involving a midnight duel with Malfoy; you have any idea about it?_

_What have you been up to comrade? Your letter was a little short on any mentions of your shenanigans. You are getting up to mischief, aren’t you? Otherwise, we may have to demote you from the New Marauders._

_Write back soon brother,_

_Gred and Forge_

Mark smiled as he folded up the letter. He would have to write to the twins soon. It had been two weeks since he’d been back from Hogwarts, and he had not realised beforehand how much he would come to miss the place.

He had debated telling his father and Edwin about Quirrell and Voldemort, but had finally decided against it. He wasn’t sure how to make ‘My teacher was a possessed Dark Lord after a priceless artefact and tried to kill me’ sound good enough.

At his dad’s insistence, he had grudgingly written his letters to his friends. Letter writing was something he had never enjoyed, particularly as all the other instances had been as an exercise during his English class. Once he realised that he didn’t have to particularly care about the proper format and stuff, it became more enjoyable.

He had written to the Twins, Neville, Dean, Harry, and Ron at first, but at his dad’s insistence also written to the other members of the Quidditch team as well, and grudgingly even to Hermione. The girl’s reply had been the fastest, with subtle questions about how much he had finished off from his summer homework.

Neville’s reply was all formal, written on some form a quality parchment. The contents were quite positive; his grandmother had been impressed by the academic performance of her grandson and had agreed to let him practice on the drums in the conservatory. The other replies were also quite polite; the only one who had not replied was Harry. Still, it was just two weeks in.

Mark had spent his time reading up on stuff he had borrowed from the Room of Requirement. The stuff on shielding that he had copied was quite informative. He wished there was some way to use magic over the summer; the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery prohibited students from using magic outside of school, according to the pamphlet he had received before boarding the Hogwarts Express home. Perhaps he could ask the twins in his next letter. They might have already figured out how to do it.

He planned on doing some preliminary examination of the Elixir in the next few days. He would have to retrieve the chemistry kit he had stored away along with his microscope. The very thought that he might be able to find a cure sent a thrill down his spine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Year One is wrapped up! Year Two onwards will have more original content than before, as the story starts diverting significantly. Hope you are enjoying the story. Please review and provide your feedback


	22. The Ford Anglia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beginning of Year Two!

31st July 1992

Harry looked out his window. Damn Dobby. And damn the Dursleys. This could be considered his worse birthday yet.

Technically his sixth birthday had been worse when Uncle Vernon had broken Harry’s arm before shoving him inside the cupboard-under-the-stairs. But back then Harry hadn’t had his hopes crushed. Back then he simply had no hope.

Since coming back from a wonderful year at Hogwarts, he had been crashed back into the reality that was life at 4, Privet Drive. Uncle Vernon had locked his trunk under the stairs the moment they had arrived (along with his wand, which was inside the trunk), and he had padlocked Hedwig’s cage.

Now used to three full meals at Hogwarts, he was painfully reminded how little food he got here. Plus, the usual chores were there to fill his days. Cooking, cleaning and gardening.

The only good thing was that Dudley was now afraid of Harry using magic on him. The pig’s tail that Hagrid had given him must’ve really scared Dudley. Muttering a few words like ‘hocus pocus’ were now sufficient to send his cousin scurrying away from him.

Still, Harry missed Hogwarts. It was the place that really felt like home. He hoped he could stay over at Hogwarts in the summer just like he did at Christmas and Easter, but that was not allowed. Professor McGonagall had told him that no student was allowed to stay back for the summers, and no exceptions were made in that regard.

The past year had been wonderful. Except perhaps for the thing with Voldemort. After the Flamels had left to meet Mark, Professor Dumbledore had spoken to him about his parents and the man who had killed them.

When Voldemort had come to kill Harry, his mother had died to save him. And that sacrifice had protected him from Voldemort as a baby. That sacrifice had also protected him when Quirrell had tried to kill him in June.

That had really weighed on Harry’s mind. His mother had died to save him. Sacrificed herself for him. She had really _loved him_.

Harry had asked the Headmaster why Voldemort had tried to kill him when he was a baby. That was what the possessed Quirrell had said; that his mother need not have died, for he had been there to kill Harry. The answer he had gotten was cryptic. Dumbledore said that the truth was not something everyone was ready for, and Harry wasn’t ready to know this yet. But the Headmaster promised to tell him when he was.

All this had been heavy on Harry’s thoughts. What possible reason could it be that Dumbledore thought he wasn’t ready yet? Was it because of the Stone? Was Dumbledore disappointed in him that he had failed to protect it, even though he had tried to assure Harry otherwise?

These thoughts had troubled him since he’d come back from Hogwarts. He had considered sharing them with Ron and Hermione but decided not to. Maybe he was looking too much into it. His friends didn’t need to know about his stupid thoughts.

His friends. Harry had been a little upset at not receiving any correspondence from his friends all summer. But he hadn’t thought much about it. Obviously, they had better things to do. Ron was a notoriously bad correspondent, and Hermione didn’t have an owl. So it was okay that they didn’t write to him. After all, he wasn’t writing them any letters either since Hedwig was now locked in her cage.

But when he didn’t get any letters today, on his birthday, Harry had been devastated. Given that her birthday was in early September, they hadn’t celebrated Hermione’s last year. But they had held a small celebration for Ron’s birthday in March. Surely, they remembered his?

As he found out later in the evening, they had in fact remembered. Not only that, but they had even written him numerous letters ever since the summer began.

It had all begun this evening when Uncle Vernon had remanded Harry to his room. The Dursleys were entertaining the Mason’s tonight, who were important clients of Grunnings, the drill company that Uncle Vernon worked for. And obviously, no one wanted a _freak_ like Harry around to ruin the evening.

So Harry was instructed to stay put in his room and not make a single sound. And more importantly, keep his _freakishness_ to himself.

But that plan was soon shot to hell. When Harry closed the door to his room, he found a strange creature standing on his bed. An obviously magical creature

At first, Harry thought it was a goblin. The resemblance was quite strong, with a similar height and body structure. On further examination, however, he found it to be something different entirely.

It was about three feet tall, with large bat-like ears, bulging green eyes the size of tennis balls, and a thin, long, pointed nose. Wearing an old pillowcase as a robe, it was the most miserable looking creature Harry had ever seen.

It introduced itself as Dobby and told Harry that it was a house-elf - A magically bonded servant for a wizarding family. Dobby had come to ask Harry not to return to Hogwarts.

That was like a punch to the gut. Not return to Hogwarts? When he asked why Dobby said that there was a secret and evil plot being planned at Hogwarts this year and that it was not safe for Harry there. When Harry said that he had to return to Hogwarts and his friends, Dobby brought up the fact that his friends hadn’t sent him any letters.

It turned out that it had been Dobby who had been stopping Harry’s mail. The elf thought that if Harry felt his friends had abandoned him, he would not go back to Hogwarts.

This had made Harry angry, angry like he had only been once before when he found out that the Dursley’s had lied about his parent’s death. Harry felt rage towards the elf but did not act on it seeing the already miserable existence of Dobby.

According to Dobby, he was often ordered to punish himself for any and all mistakes that he made. He mentioned things like having to bang his head repeatedly and shutting his ears in the oven door. He even tried to punish himself by trying to crack Harry’s bedside lamp over his head, all because he was possibly disobeying his master’s orders by coming to Privet Drive to warn Harry.

Even though Dobby insisted, Harry refused to agree to his demands. He refused to not return to Hogwarts. It was then that everything had spiralled out of control.

Dobby, now set upon preventing Harry from returning, slipped past Harry and out the door. Harry, panicked, followed the elf into the kitchen. As a final warning, Dobby used magic to float Aunt Petunia’s multi-layered pudding up in the air, threatening to let it drop. Harry stayed stubborn, trying to find a way to stop the insane elf. But it was too late; Dobby let the pudding drop and vanished from the room.

The noise drew both the Dursley’s and the Masons into the kitchen, where they were met by the most bizarre sight. Harry, standing right in the middle of the kitchen covered in the remains of the pudding.

If that wasn’t enough, Mrs Mason, who was deathly afraid of birds got shocked when the owl from the Ministry of Magic arrived. It carried a warning letter addressed to Harry for breaking the Decree on Restriction of Underage Magic.

This had been the last straw for Uncle Vernon. Now aware that Harry wasn’t allowed to use magic outside of school, he locked Harry inside his room after giving him a good thumping and letting loose a few blows alongside his usual string of insults.

Now sitting inside the locked room Harry looked out his window. He had heard his Uncle mention something about putting bars on them. He was now a prisoner in his room. Dobby had been successful; it didn’t look like Harry was returning to Hogwarts now.

Harry sometimes wondered about the reactions of his friends if they ever found out about his life here. He had slipped out a lot during his first few weeks at Hogwarts, often making an unconscious comment about the being starved or beaten by the Dursleys. The only one who was around Harry during that time was Ron, who had either not noticed him slip or just kept quiet. His friend had a good heart, but he was often oblivious to most of the things around him.

Once Hermione started hanging out with them, he had made extra attention to not let anything slip; the girl was too smart for her own good. Not that she would actually believe everything about his treatment at the hands of his relatives. She believed the good in everyone and wouldn’t be able to fathom such cruelty. She would probably think he was exaggerating for dramatic effect.

Neville and the other boys in his dormitory didn’t pay much attention to him, nor did he pay much attention to them. The only possible exception could be Mark.

Harry had often noticed Mark staring at him, and he was no idiot. From what Harry reckoned, Mark must have thought that Harry’s family wasn’t that financially stable, given the hand-me-downs he wore at school. The t-shirt he gifted Harry was evidence supporting that fact. Harry decided to not correct his perception; it was a useful cover for the truth.

Harry swallowed the lump in his truth as he saw Hedwig sleeping in the cage. She had been locked in there for more than a month now, cooped up instead of flying free like she was meant to. And now…

Harry knew that the coming days were going to be horrible. With no obvious way of returning to Hogwarts or sending anyone any message, he only hoped somebody would notice him missing on the Express.

* * *

1st September 1992

“We can fly the car to Hogwarts!”

That had been Ron’s suggestion when the two of them had found themselves stuck outside the magical barrier at Kings Cross Station which allowed entry onto platform nine-and-a-three-quarters.

Since they had missed the Express and there seemed no other way to get to Hogwarts before the Welcoming feast, it had seemed like a brilliant idea. Now, a few hours into their flight, he wasn’t so sure anymore. As they flew over the gleaming red Hogwarts Express, Harry had a growing feeling that this was probably not going to turn out that well.

After the incident on his birthday, Harry had been locked inside his room for three days before help arrived. Harry, who had spent days reading and rereading the letters his friends had sent him, was surprised to see Ron’s face in his window that night.

Turned out that Mr Weasley, who worked in the ministry got wind of Harry’s warning and told his family. Ron immediately knew something was wrong since Harry had not responded to any of the letters and would never have broken the rule for fun.

Enlisting the help of his twin brothers, the three of them set out to rescue Harry in the dead of the night. They had flown to Surrey all the way from their home in Ottery St. Catchpole in their dad’s enchanted Ford Anglia; the same car Ron was now flying over the Express.

Once they reached the Burrow- the Weasley’s home, they found Mrs Weasley awaiting their return. Amidst her scolding her sons for their actions, Harry clearly saw the love and worry she had for her children. He had been even more surprised when she evidently extended that affection to him. Never before had anyone hugged him like that.

He spent the rest of his summer with the Weasleys at the Burrow. He had never before seen such a house - it looked like a misshapen cake, with each layer added haphazardly and the impending sensation that it could collapse any moment. But somehow, odd it was, Harry had never seen anything else that just called out - _home_

The Weasleys were the most wonderful people he had ever met. He already knew four of them from school - Ron, Fred, George, and Percy. Mrs Weasley was a kind and loving woman. The moment he had arrived, she had fussed over him and insisted that he eat something healthy. As evidenced by her food, she was also a great cook. In many ways, she was the exact opposite of Aunt Petunia. Most importantly, she and her family made Harry feel welcome in their home.

Mr Weasley was one of the most interesting men Harry had met, and that included Dumbledore. He was a pureblood wizard but was fascinated with muggles and muggle-technology. He kept asking Harry different questions about various muggle customs and technology, which Harry tried to answer to the best of his abilities.

Percy the prefect spent very little time around Harry, only coming out of his room for meals. He was mainly holed up in his room, probably reading Prefects Who Gained Power.

The twins were their usual self. According to Ron, they had reduced on their pranks since they were now spending time practising music, something Mrs Weasley wasn’t sure was better or not. Unlike her husband, she was not that fond of muggle culture. Still, they found enough time to play pick-up games of quidditch with Harry and Ron.

Quidditch. Harry didn’t realise how much he had missed being able to fly whenever he wanted. The paddock at the Weasley orchard was of a decent size to fly around, and since they had no Quaffle to play with, they tossed apples instead.

Harry didn’t know what to make of Ron’s little sister. Ginny, Ron told him, had a crush on Harry. She became extremely quiet anytime he was around, occasionally acting clumsy and even scurrying away. He tried talking to her, despite his usual annoyance at the stupid fangirls at School, but she responded only in nods or one-word answers. The most she had spoken was when she stood up to Draco Malfoy in Diagon Alley.

They had visited Diagon Alley to get their books and supplies. Since he had never travelled by Floo, Harry ended up taking a wrong turn and came out through the fireplace at Borgin and Burkes, a shady shop in Knockturn Alley. After witnessing an interesting conversation between Draco Malfoy and his father, Harry was rescued by Hagrid and joined up with the Weasleys.

They had decided to coordinate their visit with their friends, so Hermione was also there for her shopping. Neville and Mark had come too, but after a brief greeting and introductions, they went on their way with the twins. Harry could have sworn he saw Mrs Weasley give Mark a pointed look. She clearly disapproved of Fred and George spending time playing rock music that Mark had introduced them to. Plus, his appearance was clearly making the matters worse - with his band t-shirt and his long rocker hairstyle.

Hermione had been excited about meeting Gilderoy Lockhart, the author of their Defence against the Dark Arts books for this year. He was holding a book signing at Flourish and Botts on that day.

Harry had found it odd when he had seen the booklists for this year - despite being in different years, all of them had the same books prescribed for DADA. George had commented that the new Professor was likely a witch since Lockhart was handsome and thus popular with female readers.

It turned out that Lockhart was their new Professor for Defence, as the rather pompous man revealed to the reporter for the Daily Prophet. Somehow, he had seen Harry in the crowd and used the opportunity to bolster his publicity by taking a picture with the Boy-Who-Lived.

If that wasn’t enough, Draco Malfoy had also chosen that day to turn up at the bookstore. On seeing Harry, he had also seized the opportunity to taunt him as usual. Surprisingly, it was Ginny Weasley who retorted angrily in Harry’s defence, though Malfoy managed to silence her in embarrassment by taunting Harry about his poor choice of a girlfriend

Further insults were halted when Draco’s father arrived, but only for a while. It seemed that Mr Malfoy and Mr Weasley were even more of enemies than Ron and Draco were, so the taunts changed targets. As Harry had overheard earlier at Burgin and Burkes, the Malfoys had a large collection of dark artefacts that they were looking to dispose of due to the Ministry raids being conducted by Mr Weasley and his colleagues. This was the main cause of tension between the two of them.

The insults turned sour when Mr Malfoy commented on Hermione’s parents being present in their company. This had been a breaking point. The next moment, Mr Weasley punched Mr Malfoy and the two wizards got into a fistfight in the bookstore, knocking over Ginny and the cauldron full of books in her hand. The children cheered for their fathers, and it took Hagrid to step in and break up the fight.

Mr Malfoy then left, but not before throwing in a last remark about the state of Ginny’s books. Once they were gone, no one was keen to stick around. The Grangers were visibly disturbed at witnessing the prejudice first-hand and left without remark. Mrs Weasley was upset by her husband’s behaviour, and the Weasleys too quietly made for their home, Harry in tow.

The rest of the summer was uneventful, except now even Ginny was holed up in her room. Finally, their vacation ended, with Harry and the Weasley children due to board the Hogwarts Express for the start of term.

After a repeated delay due to the twins forgetting their brooms and Ginny forgetting her Diary, Mr Weasley had driven them to Kings Cross in the magical Ford Anglia. They finally managed to arrive with only fifteen minutes left before the Express departed

They went through the barrier in pairs; Percy and Mr Weasley first, then the twins, followed by Mrs Weasley and Ginny, with Ron and Harry last. Only it didn’t work. For some reason, the barrier closed off, leaving Ron and Harry stranded on the other side. They watched helplessly as the clock ticked to eleven; the train must have left. As they pondered what to do next, Ron had been struck by the brilliant idea of flying the car.

As they flew around a snow-capped mountain, the sun began to set and darkness crept in. Ron dipped below the clouds to do the cursory check on the train. Satisfied, he tried to accelerate back up, but the car didn’t respond. Instead, the engine began to whine dreadfully.

Harry looked nervously at Ron, who was clearly putting on a brave face.

“It’s probably just tired,” said Ron, “It’s never been this far before…”

Harry nodded silently. However, as the sky grew darker, the whines became louder, with small wisps of steam coming from under the hood.

Yes, this was not going to turn out that well.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On to Hogwarts! We've begun Year Two. This chapter was basically a summing up of Harry's summer and is quite similar to canon.
> 
> I've also reworked the first three chapters, so if you haven't yet, do check them out. Nothing vital has been changed; just improved the formatting and dialogue and elaborated on a few more things. They were some of the first things I had ever written, and back then my skills were quite poor. Hopefully, you'll enjoy the improved chapters more. I'll also be slowly reworking all the other chapters - consider them a round of editing. I'll be mentioning the ones reworked in each subsequent chapters.
> 
> Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	23. Ginny Weasley

1st September 1992

“Stupid Gits,” Ginny muttered under her breath as she stomped out of the compartment. Couldn’t her brothers leave her alone for once?

Now that she was finally on her way to Hogwarts, Ginny had been feeling cheerful today. Sitting amicably with some other girls who were also set to join in with her, she had tried to make some friends early.

That plan went downhill when her irritating brothers decided to drop in. Fred and George had taken advantage of this lovely opportunity to tease her about her crush on Harry Potter. The other girls started giggling at that, but Ginny kept quiet. It was only when they were about to bring up a certain incident with the butter dish that she snapped and got out.

Ginny’s legs carried her forward as she tried to cool herself. The moment she saw an empty compartment, she absently opened the door and stepped inside and slammed the door behind her. Relieved that the irritating idiots wouldn’t find her here, she plopped herself onto the seat and closed her eyes.

As her breathing heaved to normal, she felt a set of eyes on her. Opening them she saw that her previous assessment was incorrect; the compartment had not been empty. Sitting on the opposite side near the window was a familiar looking boy. She remembered seeing him in Diagon Alley that day. He was one of Ron’s dormmates - Mark.

He was observing her with an intense expression. It felt as if he was examining some fascinating specimen - the specimen being her.

“What?!” she snapped, her tone a tad sharper than she intended. Her anger at her brothers had not dissipated yet, and she remembered that Mark was a good friend of theirs.

The boy in front of her smiled softly, then gave a slight smirk.

“You seem to be having a splendid day.”

It was as if a dam broke. All her frustration that had pent-up over the last month surfaced itself.

“No, I’m not. My day is far from being splendid. First, Ron comes and decides to tell me to stay away from Harry, because he is ‘his friend’,” she drew quote marks in the air. “Then, mum starts harping on about signing the permission slip for the flying classes, then in the morning Percy decides to take me aside and advise me about my conduct at school and how I should not be an embarrassment to him,” she rambled on, “now, Fred and George decide to pay me a visit and embarrass me in front of the other girls by telling abo-” Ginny’s eyes went to Mark’s face and she caught herself.  

“You were being sarcastic.” Her anger deflated at this realisation.

“Excellent observation, Miss Weasley,” Mark spoke in a high-pitched tone, which Ginny recognised to be a poor imitation of Professor McGonagall’s.

Ginny snorted at the effort, trying hard to contain her laughter. She failed, resulting in a peculiar sounding giggle. Mark must have found it amusing, for he too began to chuckle. Within moments, they were laughing loudly, the joke already forgotten.

Finally, they settled back down, the initial ice between them broken.

“So, what were Fred and George teasing you about?” Mark asked. Ginny immediately went on guard. She narrowed her eyes at him, a hint of a smile still on her lips.

“I’m not telling you that mister. I know you’re in deep with them”

Mark opened his mouth to retort but closed it back again.

“You know what, that’s a fair point.” He raised his arms slightly in mock surrender. “I won’t ask further”

This took Ginny by surprise. As the youngest in the family, no one had ever stepped back in a conversation with her; certainly not when there was an obvious opportunity to tease her. Unsure of what to say, she thought it best to change the topic.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why are you sitting alone here?”

“Oh.” Mark took a moment before answering. “Well, this was the same compartment I sat in last year with Neville, Fred and George. Turns out Fred and George are sitting up ahead with Lee, and Neville has the flu, so he isn’t on the Express today.”

“Won’t he get in trouble? For missing the Express? I always thought that if you missed the train you weren’t allowed at Hogwarts.” Ginny was speaking more to herself now. “I guess that doesn’t really make sense when I say it out loud. They surely wouldn’t stop a student from attending just because of a missed train.”

“Do you always do that- hold halfway conversations with yourself?”

Ginny narrowed her eyes at him, trying to look as menacing as possible while she thought of an equally witty comeback.

“It’s called thinking, mister. Maybe you should give it a try in that thick brain of yours.”

Yes! That had been a good one.

“Ah, thinking. I’m not so sure about that. Wouldn’t want Hermione to be angrier at me than usual. She’s already pulling her hair at the fact that I exist. She’ll probably kill me if I now decide to _think_ ”

“Hermione Granger? Wasn’t she the first in her class?” Ginny had also met the girl at Diagon Alley. Ron had boasted about how he was friends with the smartest girl in school all summer.

In response, Mark cocked one eyebrow in challenge. Ginny remembered Fred telling her about Mark being good at magic.

Deciding not to give in that easily, she retorted in the most sickly-sweet tone possible.

“You may be smart, but you don’t pull off that look.”

“That hurts Red,” Mark replied, rubbing his chest in a dramatic manner. “You didn’t have to break my heart like that.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“What? Red? Hmm. Okay, what do you prefer then - Gin, Gin-Gin, or _Ginevra_?”

Mark drew the last word as long as possible before Ginny launched herself at him and began punching him repeatedly.

“Ow,” Mark said after she finished. He nursed his now sore ribs. “You punch pretty well, for-”

“A girl?” Ginny asked angrily

“-for someone as small as you,” he finished. “It was a compliment. You have solid - punching skills.”

Ginny felt sufficiently placated at this. She even felt a bit better after being able to take her anger out, although she would have preferred a different target.

“Feel better?” Mark asked.

‘How did he know?’ Ginny wondered before she realised. He had riled her up so that she would rid herself of her anger. She nodded silently in reply.

“Good. Next time, however, remind me to get you an actual punching bag”

“What’s a punching bag?”

Mark looked at her with a disappointed expression. It took a moment for her to realise the stupidity of her question.

“Sorry, stupid question,” she answered sheepishly.

“Do you play quidditch?” He had obviously changed the topic to save her the embarrassment.

Ginny blinked at this. No one had ever asked her this question. Not even Tom. They always assumed that since she was a girl, she wouldn’t know how to play.

Shaking her thoughts, she decided to answer Mark, who was now looking confused at her silence.

“Uh- I haven’t really played yet. I would like to play Chaser,” she said the last part a bit wistfully.

“Really? That’s great,” said Mark. He then frowned in confusion. “But why haven’t you played yet? Your brothers mentioned that they have pick-up games at your place all the time?”

“Ha! Those gits let a girl play with them? They don’t even know I can fly circles around them.”

“That’s stupid of them, especially with all the starting chasers of Gryffindor being girls.” He then turned to her, having remembered something important.

“Earlier - you said something about a permission slip for flying classes. What’s that? Is that something new this year?”

Ginny deflated again. Obviously, he wouldn’t know anything about it.

“It’s required for all the female students who want to take flying classes. Girls need similar slips signed to join the quidditch teams”

“What?!” Mark exclaimed, clearly upset by this revelation. “What century are they living in?” Taking a pause, he added, “Your mother refused to sign yours? Why?”

Ginny was a little nervous to speak about her mother to an almost strange boy. But then, he had been the friendliest person she had encountered yet. After Tom, that was.

“She doesn’t think that it encourages proper behaviour in a girl. Dad had to intervene and she finally agreed,” she answered hesitantly. After a pause, she added “Not that I strictly need to learn how to fly. I’ve known how to do that since I was six”

Mark looked at her, the unasked question evident on his face. She decided to tell him about it.

“I taught myself to fly by borrowing the brooms from the broom shed early in the morning. I haven’t ever told anyone about it,” she lied. She had told Tom only a few days ago.

“That’s really impressive Ginny,” said Mark, his face showing his sincerity. He gave her a definite nod, which signalled his acknowledgement of her secret.

“Thanks. Ron mentioned you’re on the quidditch team?”

“Just on the reserve,” Mark replied. “Oliver isn’t keen on fielding reserves unless absolutely necessary, so I haven’t actually played out of practice.” After a pause, he added, “You should try out for the reserves too. I heard Dean isn’t too keen on continuing this year, and if you’re good, I don’t think Oliver will mind taking you in.”

“I may not be in Gryffindor,” Ginny said in a worried tone.

“Right, I forgot that you haven’t been sorted in yet.”

“Is it hard?” Ginny asked hesitantly.

“What?”

“The sorting test. Is it difficult?”

“Not really. You just have to wrestle a hat from a troll and put it on.”

Ginny blanched at that. On seeing the smirk on Mark’s face, she realised he was having her on. She huffed and crossed her arms.

“You don’t have to talk to me if that’s what you’re going to do.”

“Alright, I was kidding. But not about the hat though- That’s what you have to do. Put on a hat, and then Elijah sorts you.”

“Who’s Elijah?” Ginny asked, confused.

“Oh, that’s the sorting hat’s name. It’s a talking hat, you see. It looks into your mind and judges you accordingly,” Mark explained.

Ginny thought about that for a few moments, nervousness building inside her. Hesitantly she asked,

“So it decides where to put you? Against your wishes?”

“I don’t think so.” Mark’s face was deep in thought. “I think it does take your choice into account, from what I can make of my experience.”

Looking at the building panic on her face, he tried reassuring her

“Don’t be nervous, it’ll be fine.”

“What if I get sorted in some other house? I won’t have anyone to talk to,” she said dejectedly.

“You’ll make new friends. Look, you’ve already made one in me.”

“And what if I’m sorted in Slytherin? What then?”

Mark looked directly into her eyes, and he seemed to be weighing his answer before replying.

“Then I’ll be happy to have a friend dressed in green and silver.”

Ginny swallowed the lump in her throat as she considered his words. Her family’s attitude towards Slytherin was well known to her, as was the intense hatred between the house of lions and the house of snakes.

“You’ll still want to be friends with me?” she asked, a slight tremor in her voice.

Mark just looked at her and put his right hand forward. His fist was curled, with the exception of the littlest finger that was extended at her.

“Pinky promise”

Ginny laughed and returned the gesture to her new friend. Perhaps she would make more friends at Hogwarts.

And if she didn’t, she still had Tom with her.

* * *

Standing near the window in his office, Albus took a deep breath as he looked out at the depths of the forbidden forest, his eyes lost in beyond the horizon. The half-moon spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose were far heavier than usual. He was tired.

The events of the past few months had been utterly exhausting. And that was the least of his problems.

 _He_ was still alive.

Albus had seen him, seen the proof with his own eyes of _his_ continued existence. What had until now been conjecture was now the truth. Tom had survived that night. Somehow.

Albus had not expected Tom to be bold enough to come to Hogwarts _in person_. He had suspected an agent to come after the Stone, after what Nicolas and Perenelle had shared with him. After watching Quirinus’s behaviour in September, he was sure he had found his prey. The recent trip to Albania had stuck out like a sore thumb.

As long as he had not harmed any student, he had allowed Quirinus to teach. Merlin knew he needed his Defence teachers. With the Board of Governors’ ban in effect since 1932, Albus had been unable to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts. He had appealed the decision on numerous occasions, but they had refused, citing his ‘non-traditional methods’ as being disruptive to their education policy.

Perhaps it was for the best, given the curse Tom had put on the position. There was no denying it; no other possible explanation accounted for the untimely tenure of all his Defence teachers. His repeated attempts to deal with it had been in vain. He had no idea how.

Severus had asked for the position repeatedly, but Albus was sure that it was a bad idea. The risk wasn’t worth it. And after the confirmation he got in June, he was now confident of it.

In any case, Albus was disappointed in Severus’s behaviour all of last year. His treatment of Harry was fuelled by a hatred that the man should have gotten over by now.

Albus’s thoughts turned to the boy on who his hopes lay. Harry. The events of last year had proved that the boy was a true gem.

Even after all these years, the decision to leave Harry Potter in the custody of his aunt weighed on him. Had he done the right thing?

Thinking back, he had repeatedly considered any other possibility that was available to him then. But he still came to the same conclusion.

Albus had been in the Ministry when the news of the attack reached his ears. When he learned that Harry had survived, there was no denying it. The boy needed to be protected.

Knowing that the Ministry would never let him take custody of the child, he had sought the next best option. Lily’s sister was family, and thus acceptable to them; in addition, he had been able to invoke the brilliant magical protection that Lily’s sacrifice provided. In some ways, it was even stronger than what he could provide himself.

His decision to send a message to Hagrid had been timely; minutes later he had found out that Minister Bagnold was going to try and take custody of the ‘national hero’ for her own political agenda.

Hagrid had taken care of the baby for the day, while Albus had moved the necessary pieces in the ministry. The first of November had been a long day.

When he reached Surrey in the evening, Minerva had advised him against leaving Harry with Petunia. She had brought up the nature of Petunia and her new family, how it was not the ideal environment for the boy to grow up in. His friend Arabella, who he had asked to keep an eye on Harry, had reported how poorly they treated the boy.

But they did not know the repeated plots that had been attempted to harm the boy-who-lived. Voldemort may have disappeared, those that believed in him had not. After all, the attack on the Longbottoms was proof of that. Harry may have to suffer in his childhood, but at least he would make it out alive. He had to.

Turning back towards his desk, Albus glanced at the empty golden perch in the corner. His companion was out hunting today. Sighing, he took his seat on his chair. His attention was then drawn towards the appointment letter for one Gilderoy Lockhart.

Albus sighed again, this time audibly. Lockhart had been the only qualified applicant this year, that is, if his qualifications had any real weight.

He remembered the Ravenclaw’s tenure here as a student. Lockhart had been an average student and had gotten an O in his Charms and an E in his Defence NEWTs. His record in the decade afterwards, however, had been exemplary.

Albus had heard excerpts about some of these extraordinary incidents from his friends around the world. From what he could tell all of them seemed genuine. But something - something felt off. He chalked it off to the inflated ego of Lockhart. After all, humility and magical skill were not related to each other.

Nevertheless, Lockhart had somehow managed to get a foot into the Board of Governors. They had wholeheartedly approved the booklists for this year. Albus had been surprised by this, for the Board rarely approved defence books on the first go. They usually had some objections, specifically with any books that leaned more towards the practical side.

When he saw the lists, Albus had been doubly confused. The lists for all the years were same and contained all of Lockhart’s own works, which were essentially storybooks. The man wasn’t planning to teach using storybooks as texts, was he?

As the Headmaster, Albus had little control over the manner in which subjects were taught. Teaching autonomy was a privilege given to every member of Hogwarts staff and fell under the scrutiny of the Board of Governors. How that man managed to get this approved, Albus didn’t know. Perhaps he promised Lucius some cut of the profit from the boosted sale of his books. It certainly seemed likely.

Lucius Malfoy. The man had too much influence for a former Death Eater. He was still on the Wizengamot and the Board of Governors solely on the strength of his money and family name. Ever since he was acquitted at the trials after the wars, Malfoy had used his resources to continue the agenda of pureblood supremacy, thwarting any attempts at what he called ‘radicalization of wizarding culture.’

Thankfully, the Muggle Protection Act had passed despite Lucius’s vehement opposition. It was an excellent piece of legislation, and Arthur Weasley had done a great job with closing some of the loopholes. It would be a big blow towards all the muggle-baiting that some of the conservatives wanted to uphold.

Lucius, however, would not sit idle. The man was not someone who accepted failure easily. He had already appealed the act twice in the Wizengamot, and had managed to increase support for his stand.

Albus just hoped that Lucius would not go after Arthur personally. Thankfully, all the younger Weasley children were coming in through the Express today, with young Ginevra joining in for her first year. Lucius wouldn’t dare come after them at Hogwarts. They would be safe here.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter done, and the first meeting between Mark and Ginny. Their relationship is one of the major plotlines of the story, and I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Lockhart will not be depicted as a complete idiot as he was in the books, but with a more sinister and con-man type personality. He's unskilled with a wand, but he did manage to fool people. Anyway, there isn't any direct interaction with him until about ten chapters later, so he'll only appear in "recall" sections like this.
> 
> As for as the upgrading goes, I'm done with chapters 5 and 6. Both had major issues with POV consistency and that had to be changed. Plus originally chapter 6 was not s per my original vision, so I ended up rewriting it completely. Majorly, nothing plot-critical has changed, so there's nothing to fret about. But then, I ended up with double the wordcount in that chapter. If you guys felt that those earlier chapters weren't up to the mark, do check them out now. I hope you like them.
> 
> Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	24. Good to be Back

4th September 1992

“They did what?!”

“Flew our Dad’s car to Hogwarts. All the way from London,” Fred answered merrily, drumming his fingers on the table with each word.

“Because they missed the Express?” Neville tried to confirm. “Are they barking mad?”

“I think that was sufficiently established when we began this conversation,” Mark commented dryly. Unlike the twins, he wasn’t of the opinion that this was some spectacular prank, planned or otherwise.

“That isn’t even the best part,” George grinned, “Mum sent Ron a Howler. Right here, in the middle of the Great Hall.”

Neville had his mouth hung open at that. Mark could understand; Howlers were the worst sort of reprimand a kid could get, especially one in public. He’d seen the effects of it first-hand.

Mark would never have claimed he was some saint-like kid—he had done his fair share of idiotic mistakes at school. Technically, some weren’t even mistakes; just experiments gone awry. But never had his Dad reprimanded him in such a fashion. His Dad—and even Mark by extension—believed in the effectiveness of measured and rational teaching. No scolding, no hitting. Mark didn’t even recall being grounded. His Dad explained and he listened. Simple.

So, to say Mrs Weasley’s Howler was something terrifying to experience was an understatement. Anyone in the Great Hall who hadn’t known about the incident previously surely came to know then. He’d never forget the sheer fear and embarrassment that had run through Ron at that very moment; he would have seen it on his face even if he hadn’t felt it while _gleaning_ into his mind.

Hermione Granger wasn’t of the same opinion as him—she thought that the punishment was well deserved. She was now back to loathing Mark during the classes. He could see her trying even harder, obviously with the goal of firmly surpassing him this term. She was not the kind of person to settle for a draw, and Mark was happily prepared to offer a challenge.

Now that a few days had passed, Mark realised that he actually had missed Hogwarts. Not the castle itself, or the physical distance that separated Scotland and London. He would have rather preferred to attend a day school, staying close to his Dad as much as possible. No, it had been the study of magic that he had missed—the freedom to use his wand, to transfigure a snuffbox and charm a teapot, and to brew some fantastical potion.

While some things were good, some things were still the same. Professor Binns was still his ghostly self, allowing Mark the much-needed opportunity to nap in the class. Professor Sprout was still having them handle various confusing plants—if they weren’t similar in appearance, they were probably similarly named. Mark was glad that Neville was finally back; he was sorely bored in the last class. Professor Snape was still his grumpy self, especially sadistic towards Harry. Mark was properly confused by the behaviour of the potions master—none of it made any sense.

In the same but diametrically opposite position was the odd behaviour of their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher—Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin Second Class. If being pompous was some rare fabric, the man wore a whole set of robes made from it.

The very first class, he had given the students a pop quiz. Mark had gone through the prescribed books on the list during the summer. They were alright, if a little too story-bookish. If one combed through the self-aggrandizing stuff that the book was full off, you could find some really insightful information.

But that was not what the quiz was about at all. Instead of questions about Defence—hell any sort of useful information—it only contained questions straight out of a Witch Weekly issue. Who cared what Gilderoy Lockhart’s favourite colour or his secret ambition was?

Hermione, obviously, had aced the test. Mark wondered if she had a slight form of photographic memory—he refused to believe any individual would willingly memorize Gilderoy Lockhart’s favourite perfume. After an initial period of hoping that the test was a prank of sorts, Professor Lockhart asked two students to come forward in order to perform a certain scene from his book. Mark watched the professor enact the ‘brave’ manner in which he defeated a ghoul in a village in Africa—it was like watching a bad quality play.

It was then that Mark decided to glean into Professor Lockhart’s mind, hoping to figure out his reasoning behind this. But he couldn’t—Professor Lockhart was an Occlumens, and a good one at that.

In hindsight, Mark thought, he had to be. Professor Dumbledore, Professor Snape—hell, even Professor Quirrell/Voldemort were Occlumens. It was a sign of skill and competence. And Professor Lockhart was clearly both skilled and competent—his accounts were rich enough proof of that.

Surprisingly, the DADA professor wasn’t the only new Occlumens at school. There was the youngest Weasley and his newest friend, Ginny. Her mind was fantastically obscured—the only other student at Hogwarts who had any such defences was Harry.

Mark was glad to have met her. Ginny was smart, outgoing, snarky—lively. The exact opposite of what she had been when he had met her before at Diagon Alley in the summer. Then, she had been overtly shy, trying to blend in the background. Mark reckoned that it must have been the presence of her rather large family—he knew he would have been overwhelmed by them. He was happy that their conversation on the train went great, and that he had eased some of her worries about Elijah and the sorting—it took less than a minute for her to be declared a Gryffindor.

“What about the barrier closing itself?” Neville asked. Mark realised he had zoned out of the conversation.

“No idea, mate. It was tampered with—they checked it. But the cause is still unknown.” George answered.

“In any case, they arrived with a bang, bravely battling the great Whomping Willow itself,” Fred said proudly, “Couldn’t have done it better ourselves. And because it was before the term started, they didn’t even lose any points.”

Mark checked his watch, his breakfast done. Drinking up the now lukewarm coffee from his cup (being friends with the house-elves had its perks—take that Dad!), he nudged Neville.

“It’s time for charms,” Mark announced. “Come on, finish up. I’ll bring you up to speed on all the classes.”

* * *

5th September 1992

“Whatsamatter?” Harry groaned. Couldn’t he have some peaceful sleep for once?

“Get up. Time for Quidditch practice” Wood answered a little too cheerfully. “You guys too. I want the reserves on the pitch today too.”

“But its five in the morning!” Ron cried out, still buried beneath his blankets. Harry, was already out and getting dressed. Used to rude wake-up calls, he watched in amusement as Ron punched his pillow before reluctantly clambering out of the bed. Mark, meanwhile, was nodding absently as he grabbed his clothes, dark circles beneath his eyes. He must have stayed up late last night, as was usual for the boy.

“Yes, it’s part of the new training program,” Wood informed. “I’ll be waiting for you lot in the common room,” he said before vanishing down the stairs. The three of them got dressed in their Quidditch robes, Ron muttering curses at everything in sight.

“Lucky sods,” said Ron as he put on his boots, glaring at Seamus and Dean, still asleep in their beds. Dean had dropped out of the reserve team this year, allowing him more time to pursue his drawing.

“Come on, we don’t want to keep Wood waiting,” said Harry, his Nimbus Two Thousand in his hand. Ron picked up his old Shooting Star, while Mark would still be using one of the school brooms.

Wood was waiting for them in the common room, along with the rest of the team. Harry saw that the Weasley twins were still half asleep, drooping over their brooms. The other players—a bit more awake than them—were looking generally annoyed.

“Morning Wood!” said Mark, a bit too loudly, drawing the attention of everyone in the common room.

Harry turned to look at him—the enthusiasm seemed odd, the wide grin on the boy’s face even more so. It took a moment for Harry’s sleep-addled brain to register the connotation; when he did, he barely managed to hold in his laughter.

Evidently, the others weren’t that slow. The impact of Mark’s words had been instantaneous; Fred and George snapped to attention before smiling wildly, the rest turning to see Oliver Wood, who had now turned beet red. Ron was the only one still too sleepy to have realised what happened.

“What? Can’t I greet my _dedicated captain_ who has decided to hold our practice at this _wonderful hour_?” Mark asked, and Harry almost lost it. Chuckles and giggles broke out, and Wood decided to take control of the situation.

“That’s enough cheek, Smith. Let’s move, people,” Wood ordered, his face still flushed from embarrassment.

-

-

“He’s a foul git, he is! Bloody Malfoy.” Harry complained as he sat in Hagrid’s Hut. Hermione looked pale, while Ron was nodded silently in agreement, still belching slugs into the bucket in his hands.

After spending three hours of their ‘practice time’ inside the changing rooms going over all different plays and strategies that Wood had thought of incorporating in this year, they finally made their way to the Quidditch Pitch. It was mid-morning already by then, the reserves allowed to go back to bed. Ron had obviously stuck around, partly because he was interested in seeing Wood employ the new plays. He joined Hermione in the stands, who had brought along some breakfast for the two of them, a Lockhart book in her hand. Colin Creevey—a new first-year Gryffindor, excited to even be in the presence of the great ‘Harry Potter’—was busy clicking away pictures of Harry on his magical camera.

An hour into the actual practice, one which Harry was trying even harder than usual—he was feeling especially guilty about the fact that they had lost the last match spectacularly due to him being stuck in the Hospital wing with no reserve seeker to take his place—the Slytherin Quidditch team had shown up.

Evidently, Snape had given them permission to practice today, overriding Wood’s booking of the Quidditch pitch. The reason for their special practice was the training of a new Seeker—Draco Malfoy. His father—who Harry had seen in Knockturn Alley that day—had ‘generously donated’ a full set of brand-new Nimbus 2001’s for the entire Slytherin team.

Malfoy, unable to resist insulting anyone wearing scarlet and gold, commented on the brooms of the Gryffindor team, only to be retorted back by Hermione—she mentioned how no Gryffindor had to buy their way onto the team. Enraged, Malfoy called her a Mudblood, prompting an immediate reaction from Ron.

In hindsight, if they hadn’t flown from London in the car, perhaps this encounter would have gone differently. Because then Ron’s wand wouldn’t have been broken during their crash into the Whomping Willow. When Ron tried cursing Malfoy today, the curse backfired, causing Ron to start belching out slugs again. Evidently, Spellotape was not a prescribed fix for broken wands.

“Yer right Harry,” said Hagrid, “But ye shouldn’t try and pick fights with him. His father is on the Board of Governors. Leave it to the Professors. That goes ‘specially for you Ron.”

Ron opened his mouth to protest but instead belched a few more slugs into the bucket.

“You’re right Hagrid,” said Hermione. “Ron. Harry. I appreciate the two of you trying to stand up for me. But you shouldn’t have tried cursing Malfoy.” Taking a pause, she added with narrowed eyes, “As much as he deserved it. Remember, the last time he said that word, Professor McGonagall put him in detention for a week. He’ll likely be punished again now.”

* * *

6th September 1992

“Again—One, Two, Three, Four,” Mark counted as George began strumming the Bass in rhythm.

Today was their first practice this term, and Mark had been blown away by the difference in his friends. The sheer improvement in their playing skills was staggering. Of course, they were still amateurs; but the last term they had barely begun learning the chords. The pace with which they were progressing was much faster than when he had first begun to play. They must have broken their backs practising all summer.

“Amazing,” muttered Mark, watching Neville move fluidly over the drums. His progress was the most astonishing amongst them, as Mark hadn’t strictly known how to teach someone to play the drums. He had had to draw on the limited second-hand experience of watching Ollie play at his old school. He wondered whether Neville had some innate talent for the drums; there was no way his friend was playing the way he did solely by what Mark taught him.

Fred and George were much different in their choice of music than Mark would have initially considered them to be. It hadn’t taken him too long to figure out that the two were not as interchangeable as most people thought. George preferred the slow tempo of the Bass, relishing the technique involved in the playing. On the other hand, Fred preferred faster guitar heavy pieces, even singing along in his crazy voice when his heart felt like it. Mark wondered if Fred could perform as a vocalist; the boy did have the range for it.

“So, what do you say?” asked Fred, interrupting Mark’s train of thought. “Do we pass muster?”

Mark didn’t answer immediately; he was still processing everything he had observed. Trying to make sure if it implied what he thought it implied.

“What’s wrong? I didn’t think we were that bad,” muttered Fred, sweat dripping off his forehead. He turned to Neville. “Were we that bad?”

“Gentleman,” said Mark, drawing their attention back towards him, a broad smile on his face. “I think we have a band.”

-

-

“I—that was bloody brilliant,” said Neville.

“That’s an understatement,” remarked Fred, as they now made their way to the kitchens after the practice. “We should find some way to meet more often for this”

“Seconded, my slightly-less-handsome brother,” George agreed. “How about Tuesdays? You guys don’t have any classes in the evening, right?”

“Eh —” Neville racked his head for the timetable, but Mark answered before he could remember

“Yeah, we do”

“You already memorised the times for all the classes?” asked Neville in slight disbelief.

“Not at all. Just memorised all the free slots,” came the reply. “Need to be sure of when I’m free to participate in certain shenanigans,” Mark smirked as he high-fived Fred. They soon found themselves seated at one of the long tables in the kitchens.

“Hey Corky,” Mark called out to the familiar elf passing by.

“You wants that salad again Master Smith?” Corky asked in an excited tone. A little too excited.

“Yes please” Mark replied, a reluctant smile on his face. He turned back to face his friends—now looking at him with their mouths hanging open.

“Salad?” Fred finally asked. “Where’re the scones, where are the cakes? Where’s the cheese? Who are you and what have you done with Mark Smith?”

Mark bit back a clever retort—probably not that clever in the first place. It was better to explain directly.

“Well, I’ve been put on a strict diet now. Dad and Edwin were right upset by how much I had gained last term,” said Mark. Looking at the shocked faces, he continued further, “It’s not something monstrous, guys. I’m still allowed everything except sweets during mealtimes. Anytime I feel hungry outside of mealtimes, I get a salad.”

“No sweets?” asked Neville after a moment, a sickly expression on his face.

“No. Edwin was rather insistent. No more scones and cakes. No more cheese outside of meals.” Looking at the now horrified expression on George’s face, Mark gave him a pat on the shoulder.

“Cheer up, boys. It’s not actually that bad. I found I rather liked a particularly well-made-salad.”

“Particularly-well-made-salad,” muttered Fred, “Those words aren’t supposed to go together.”

“Hey, if it helps me look anything like my Dad in the future, I’m all for it,” Mark retorted back. Even though he looked sick than he had in his youth, Mark’s Dad was still a head-turner at his age.

“If it’s alright with you,” said George, munching on a scone, “It’s alright with us.” Pointing the half-eaten scone at the bowl of green salad in front of Mark he added,

“Just don’t expect _us_ to eat _that._ ”

* * *

19th September 1992

As she rested her head on the soft pillow, Hermione thought back to the wonderful day she had had. She hadn’t expected her friends to actually remember her birthday, let alone celebrate it. Her parents, always the practical purists, had pre-packed her birthday card and present inside her trunk, to be opened on the appropriate day today.

Before Hogwarts, Hermione never had any friends. Sure, people were friendly. But they were mostly intimidated or irritated with her. At first, she had believed that there must be something wrong with her. Maybe she was being too nosy about the work others did in school. Perhaps she should just keep quiet and not try and correct others, even though it was plain as day that they were wrong.

Sometimes she thought that others were just being mean to her. They would rather be friends with the pretty girls. She certainly wasn’t, not with her large bushy head of hair and a quite noticeable overbite. Nor was she interested in spending her time with gossip and fluffing herself up with makeup and clothes. Being called the ‘teacher’s pet’ certainly didn’t help her. So she became an outcast—staying on the fringe—partly by the actions of her peers, and partly by her own choice.

But there was a small sense of sadness within her—of being alone, unwanted. Her parents helped; told her stories of their own childhood. Neither of them had been the popular kid at school. And now, they were both successful professionals—members of a happy family. All Hermione needed to have was patience and hard work. And she believed it.

That was until Professor McGonagall showed up at her doorstep last summer. Suddenly, Hermione had an explanation for her situation. That there was a reason she never fit in with the other kids—because she was a witch. She wasn’t just different; she was _different._

Once her initial excitement subsided, fear and logic gripped her again. Given that she had missed out on eleven years of magical life that the other kids at Hogwarts no doubt had, Hermione was at an obvious disadvantage. What would happen when she went to Hogwarts, ignorant and unprepared in the ways of the new world that _she_ was joining? It was her own responsibility, after all, to prepare herself. So, she did. Read the textbooks, bought new ones. Studied everything she could, in the limited time she had. Left no stone unturned.

But as it happened, this school was not that different from her old one. Magical or not, they were still kids. After all, it had been naïve of her to expect something else. Magic hadn’t made her more outgoing, nor made her more good-looking. Neither had it changed her attitude towards studying—if only it had now intensified. And even though she tried her hardest to be helpful and friendly, she still got the same reactions from her classmates. A prissy-know-it-all, with bushy-hair and buck-teeth.

By Halloween, she had been done. Crying in that bathroom, she made a silent promise; no longer would she try to be nice and helpful. If the others thought she was a prissy-know-it-all, she would actually do something to deserve that label. Nobody bothered about her. Nobody cared anyway.

But then she had been proved wrong. Faced with certain death—a smelly, disgusting troll swinging its huge club—her legs had turned to lead. In the back of her mind, she was hoping for some professor to arrive in the form of help. There wasn’t hope otherwise. But when help arrived, it wasn’t any professor. No, it was in the form of two boys. Specifically, the two boys who had been mean to her earlier that day. There to warn her—ended up saving her. They had cared.

After that moment, standing in the bathroom with a body of an unconscious troll at her feet, there was no denying it—she had friends. Those of the strongest kind. Sure, they were not as serious as her about their studies and were more prone to occupy themselves with whatever stupid activities boys like to spend their time doing. But they were true Gryffindors. She had understood what that actually meant on that day, and on the day they had encountered _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_. She had been scared, but neither Ron nor Harry had been.

She wondered what her parents would think of that—their daughter almost getting killed twice in a year. Obviously, she hadn’t told them anything—that would have been stupidity, and she was Hermione Granger. Still, she thought about how the differences between them were growing each day she was at Hogwarts.

Being dentists, her parents had planned on doing her braces last year, but coming to Hogwarts meant there weren’t enough opportunities for the periodic adjustments. She had enquired about magically adjusting her teeth, which according to Madame Pomfrey was quite easy to do. But her parents were firm on this; no one was touching their daughter’s teeth but them. Enough had changed already.

On the train ride to Hogwarts, Hermione had briefly wondered if Harry and Ron had decided to not be friends with her anymore. Maybe they had kept her around out of pity before. Now that they realised how unnecessary she was, they decided to abandon her. But then those two idiots flew a car into Hogwarts and everything was fine again.

Her birthday today had been wonderful. Even though she had remembered and planned a surprise party for Ron’s birthday, for some reason she wasn’t expecting a party for herself at all. It was a splendid celebration if organised in a slightly haphazard manner.

There was a cake (courtesy of Fred and George Weasley, who wished her “Happy Birthday Hermione Granger, muggle-born”), all her favourite snacks, and the birthday song accompanied with a guitar piece by played by Mark. They all gave her gifts, ranging from chocolate frogs and peppermint toads to an old battered copy of Victor Hugo’s _Les Misérables_. But she was mainly happy because she now knew she had good friends.

Hermione snuggled further into her bed, trying to hold on to the giddy feeling in her stomach. As her eyes fluttered closed, she remembered the brief and awkward hug Ron gave her, and the wonderful feeling that she had gotten from it.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter in, and we're firmly into Year 2! This chapter delves into Hermione's psyche for a bit, something that hadn't happened yet. Her POV's will slowly become prominent, not actively coming into the picture as much in Book One. She's an interesting character, her personality a contrast with both Harry and Mark.
> 
> One important point to take note is about Lockhart. As it is evident, his first class did not have a demonstration with the Cornish Pixies here, instead moving straight onto the play acting from his books. The main reasoning behind it is that Lockhart is a crook, not an idiot. His every action is a well-rehearsed act, and he would definitely not bring in something he knows he can't handle. JKR's version of Lockhart is a person who is likely delusional; mine is not.
> 
> In the coming chapters Harry's role is limited; that is because the arc will focus on Mark more. The next few chapters after those will be opposite, with the arc focusing on Harry more. Given that this is where the divergences begin, Harry will finally get more expanded segments from now on.
> 
> As for the chapter upgrade, I'm now finished with both chapter 7 and chapter 8. Chapter 7 had some POV inconsistencies and both had dialogue which could be improved, so I did. Check them out. I think you'll like them.
> 
> Content-wise, only one point has been added: the mention of Mark's Herpetophobia. I had originally planned on revealing it later, but realised it fit better there in Chapter 7. Other than that, nothing of note had been added.
> 
> Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	25. Colin Creevey

14th October 1992

“Heya Harry!”

Harry closed his eyes as he groaned inwardly. Not now, please. Opening his eyes back again, he discreetly looked for the source of the voice that had called out for him, so that he could avoid it and slip by to his dorm instead. He tried covering himself behind Ron’s taller frame—all so that he couldn’t be spotted by Colin Creevey.

It had been more than a month since term started, and Harry had already had enough of Colin to last him a lifetime. Colin—a muggleborn first-year Gryffindor—had read and heard all about the great Harry Potter before arriving at Hogwarts. Ever since term began, he had taken to following Harry around like a devoted little puppy in between classes and mealtimes—even sitting in the stands during their Quidditch practices and clicking away photos of ‘Harry Potter in action.’

On one day, Colin managed to muster his courage and approached Harry to ask him for a signed photograph—just like those celebrities that Aunt Petunia gossiped about. Before Harry could politely refuse him, Malfoy—who had overheard the conversation—dropped in with his usual fresh air, taunting Harry about selling signed photos. If that wasn’t enough by itself, Professor Lockhart had to overhear the bloody words ‘signed photos’ and step in to toot his own horn, insisting Colin take a photograph of them both. This all was too much for Harry; he slipped past both Lockhart and Colin, avoiding them as much as he could ever since.

“Harry!” Colin called out again, waving his arms as he made towards where Harry was; Harry made a mental note to not use Ron as camouflage in the future. Realising it was better to get it over with quickly, he took a deep breath before facing his overexcited fan.

“Yes, Colin?”

Seeing the look of nervousness on Colin’s face, Harry began to regret asking that question. If whatever Colin wanted had the boy gripped in nervousness, it wasn’t bound to be any good.

“Oh—I was—I was wondering,” Colin began, sounding more unsure than he had previously. “I was wondering If I could take that picture of yours? I already developed the one with Professor Lockhart you see, but your face isn’t clear enough in that one.”

Colin was sounding desperate now, trying hardest to convince Harry. “I want to send it to my dad, you see—and my younger brother—so, can you—”

Harry decided to interrupt him before he could word his request any further.

“I’m sorry Colin, but I really need to be going to—to the library.”

Ron looked at Harry incredulously; they had just returned from there, having spent three hours studying Transfiguration with Hermione. He obviously didn’t want to go back, but a look from Harry silenced him for the moment. Colin, however, was not discouraged by Harry’s excuse.

“Oh, that’s great! Can I come too? My dad will love a picture of Harry Potter studying in the library. You don’t even need to sign it!”

“I—you don’t want to take a picture of me in the library. I’ll just be staring at a book, or writing some notes. It’ll be the most boring picture possible. Isn’t that true Ron?” Harry replied as he kicked Ron in the foot.

“Ow—yeah, yeah. You don’t want a picture of Harry studying,” said Ron. “He—He dozes off quite a lot. Isn’t a pretty sight. He looks like a—like a sleeping iguana.”

The instant those words left his mouth, Ron’s eyes closed and his face took on an expression of regret. Colin’s, on the other hand, took on one of wonder and amazement.

“Iguana? That’s so cool! Please, can I—”

Harry turned to Ron with a betrayed expression, and Ron mouthed a silent sorry. Before Colin could rope Harry into a photoshoot, someone interrupted them.

“Hey, Colin! Just the man I wanted to see.”

Harry turned to see Mark approach them with a broad smile on his face. He hoped Mark hadn’t heard their conversation just now. Mark thumped Colin on the back in friendliness—too much friendliness, Harry observed, and spoke to the boy in his usual casual tone.

“What are you up to? You want to hang out?” Colin, obviously flattered by an older student approaching him, lit-up in excitement.

“Me? Sure. I’ll just —” He suddenly remembered what he’d been doing before. “Actually, I was just going to take a photo of Harry —”

“Harry can wait a bit, can’t he?” said Mark with a disappointed expression. “Plus, look at him. He looks pretty busy right now.” Mark turned to Harry and gave him a discreet wink. Harry grabbed the chance immediately.

“Yeah Colin. I’ve got a potions essay to finish,” said Harry, while Ron nodded along in agreement. “Maybe some other time?”

“Oh. Okay then.” Colin’s face deflated a bit, but Mark thumped his back again.

“Come on then. Let’s go over there”

Harry decided it was best for him to leave the Common room, and return a bit later when it was safer.

“I—um. See you later?” he said awkwardly taking his leave. Colin smiled and waved a bit while Mark got a shit eating grin on his face.

“See you later, _Iguana_ ”

Harry groaned again and turned on a silently giggling Ron, who quickly stopped and apologised. Harry shook his head. He was never going to live this one down.

* * *

Mark watched with a grin as Harry and Ron walked out of the portrait hole. He was going to have so much fun with that nickname. He wouldn’t use it immediately or frequently—No, when Harry would think he had forgotten, when Harry had his guard down—that’s when he would come at him with it again.

The very thought of it was so funny that Mark had to shake his head to control his laughter. Turning, he saw Colin again and wondered if his decision was wise. Was it really his place to do this? Was it even necessary?

“So, Colin,” Mark began, giving the boy a light thump on the back, “how are you settling in?”

Colin smiled and followed Mark as he gestured for them to sit on the couch.

“Great! It’s so amazing here. The classes are wonderful. The teachers are wonderful. Magic is just so—amazing,” he said with brimming enthusiasm—something that was usual for the boy. Even now on the couch, he was sitting on the edge had his back arched in attention.

“That’s good. You’re right, Magic is pretty awesome. I didn’t really realise how much I missed it until I was back home for the summer.”

“I never really knew all the odd stuff that I could do was magic,” said Colin. “That is until I got my letter from Hogwarts. It was such a change, especially from my old school.”

“I can understand. I felt the same way actually. You get used to it after a while.”

“Really? My dad couldn’t believe half the stuff we were told. He had been pretty worried beforehand, with all the odd stuff me and my brother did.”

“I guess it was the same with my dad,” chuckled Mark. “You know, at first we thought I had superpowers or something. Like the ones in the comics—you know, X-Men and the like.” Colin nodded his head in recognition. “You said you have a brother?” asked Mark, remembering Colin’s words. “Is he magical too?”

“Dennis. He’s almost two years younger than me,” said Colin. “About him being magical—he’s done some accidental magic but we can’t really be sure until we get the letter, can we? He was pretty excited to see Diagon Alley, you know. Wanted to meet Harry Potter, once we read about who he was and what he’d done. That’s what I was hoping for—a photo to send to Dennis and my Dad.”

“That’s good,” said Mark. He decided to change the subject. “What class do you like the best so far?”

Colin scratched his chin in a thoughtful manner, furrowing his brows in concentration.

“It’s difficult to say. Astronomy is great. I never knew that it could be so fun. Charms is also pretty good, so it’s difficult to decide. Plus, there’s Professor Lockhart. He’s done so much so great stuff.”

“Yeah, Charms is pretty good. As for Professor Lockhart, I don’t know. Seems just okay to me.”

“Well he isn’t as great as Harry Potter now, is he?” retorted Colin, before he realised something. “You must know all about Harry, wouldn’t you, sharing a dorm with him.”

Mark became distinctly uncomfortable at this. It looked like he would have to go through with his initial plan after all. There was no easy way to do this, and the sooner he explained it to Colin, the better it would be for everyone involved.

“Yeah, Harry’s cool. Listen,” Mark said, before looking Colin in the eye. “There’s something I think I should tell you. It’s a bit serious, and I would appreciate if you hear me out.”

“Of course,” Colin replied eagerly. Taking a slow breath, Mark continued.

“Good. Now, what do you know about Voldemort?” Colin’s face lost all sign of enthusiasm at this, and Mark could see a subtle fear creep in.

“Vol—you said his name.”

“I did. Met him too. Not particularly what you’d call a pleasant personality,” Mark said dismissively. “Now what do you know about him and Harry?”

Colin seemed to be struggling between answering the question and processing the new information Mark had inadvertently dumped on him.

“I … You-Know-Who tried to kill Harry and then he died and that’s how Harry got his scar. That’s what everyone told me. Wait, you _met_ him? You-Know-Who is _alive_?”

“Kind of. That’s irrelevant right now. Now, how old do you think Harry was when all of that happened?”

Colin was taking short breaths right now, any trace of his usual excitement gone. Scrunching his forehead, he answered Mark.

“He was a baby—what, a year old?”

The moment he finished, Colin seemed to realise the significance of his answer.

Mark nodded seriously at this, his eyes now boring into Colin’s.

“Yeah. What else happened that night?”

“His parents—they—they died.”

Colin whispered the last part, the purpose of this conversation now clear to him.

“Yes. Harry lost both his parents.”

Colin’s head dropped in shame, but Mark continued on.

“Look at me, Colin.” The boy raised his head reluctantly, eyes filled with regret and sorrow. Mark decided to drive his point home. “Harry isn’t some great hero who vanquished the Dark Lord. He’s a _survivor_ of an attack on his family.”

“But—but,” he spluttered momentarily, before deciding to stay silent. Mark, who _gleaned_ into Colin’s mind, answered the unasked question.

“The whole boy-who-lived thing? Harry isn’t fond of it. I get that you want to make friends with him, but you need to remember this—He’s more than a scar.”

Realising Mark’s point, Colin nodded to himself before answering seriously.

“You’re right. I will.”

Mark gave the mousy haired boy a smile and decided that he had got his message across successfully. Time to lighten the mood.

“Great. Now, that camera of yours,” he said, pointing towards the old-fashioned camera hanging by Colin’s neck, “Is it magical? How does it work?”

Colin’s face bounced back at this, jumping into bubbling enthusiasm once more.

“Oh, it's so amazing. It’s got a different film, and if you use a special potion, the pictures move! Can you believe that! I always wanted to be a photographer, and I saw this at Diagon Alley. My dad was sceptical of it at first, but I convinced him to buy it. He’s a milkman you see, and—” Colin continued to tell Mark all about his life before Hogwarts, along with all the fun experimentation that he had done so far with his new camera.

Mark found himself drawn into the conversation, occasionally asking Colin for clarifications on the workings of magical and muggle photography. Colin was quite content in answering Mark’s queries, and soon they found themselves lost in conversation, with Mark telling Colin about the internal workings of Electric Guitars and amplifiers.

It was when a flash of brilliant red moved in the corner of his eye that Mark’s attention was interrupted. He turned towards it, seeing the youngest Weasley entering the common room and heading for the staircase for the girl’s dorms.

“Hey, Ginny.”

Ginny was apparently lost in thought, as she nearly jumped at the greeting, a small amount of panic gracing her face momentarily. Turning towards the couch, she saw Mark.

“Huh? — Oh hello,” said Ginny. “Hi Colin,” she added after a moment.

Mark observed Ginny. Any signs of the cheerful and energetic person he had met on the Express seemed to have disappeared.

“You alright? You look a little pale.”

Ginny looked alarmed at this for a moment, her eyes darting around uncomfortably.

“I’m fine. Everything’s fine”

“You sure don’t look fine. Trouble sleeping?”

Ginny’s face showed signs of irritation at being interrogated like this, her eyes looking slightly red in anger—as if the flames from the fireplace seemed to reflect off of them.

“Yeah. That’s right. It’s difficult sleeping here. Just used to being at home,” she answered Mark in a dismissive tone.

“I can understand. How are your classes? Anything I can help you with?”

Ginny’s face softened at this, a small smile creeping in.

“Good. It’s quite fun actually.” Ginny looked at Mark and added warmly. “Don’t worry, I’m not having any difficulties. And if I can always ask my friends for help.” Mark smiled back at this.

“That’s good to hear. Friends are great. Still, you’ll let me know if you need any help, right?”

Ginny nodded and motioned to leave for her room.

“Sure. Goodbye, Mark.”

“Bye,” Mark said and gave her a little wave. As he watched her disappear up the stairs, he pondered a little on Ginny.

It was good that Ginny had made friends at school. She was quite distressed about that matter on the Express, so it was great that she didn’t have to worry about it any longer.

He wondered which student she had made friends with.

* * *

17th October 1992

“Where—” Ginny squinted as she opened her eyes. She must have been sleeping. Looking around, she realised that she was in the abandoned girl's bathroom on the first floor.

‘That’s odd,’ she thought. She didn’t remember going to the bathroom. The last she remembered—

What did she remember? It all felt like a dream. Was she sleepwalking? She had been having these blackouts recently, but Tom was sure they were just due to the stress of the new school.

Deciding that it wasn’t wise to stay seated on the cold bathroom floor, Ginny stood up and brushed her robes with her hands. Only they found something unexpected.

Feathers. She was covered with them, and as she looked around, she saw the bathroom floor littered with them. Picking one to examine it closer, she recognised it to be from a chicken—specifically a rooster. Ginny had spent enough time cleaning the coop at the Burrow to know the difference.

The question was, where had they come from? Was this somehow related to the blackouts she was having? Taking her wand in her hand, Ginny cleaned the bathroom floor of all the litter. It was a nifty spell that Tom had taught her, and she wished she could use it at home to help with her chores.

Once she and the bathroom were cleared of the feathers, Ginny decided to head back to the common room and to her bed. There was no reason to linger around any longer, especially since it was after curfew.

Tom had told her about many of the secret passageways that she could use to avoid the patrolling prefects. It wouldn’t do good to be caught lurking around in the night, especially by someone like Percy.

Tom. Ginny was really glad that she found Tom. In a way, he was her closest friend, and slowly becoming her closest confidante. He was really brilliant. He helped her with her homework, and gave her advice about anything and everything. Apart from her schoolwork, he had even taught her some nifty and useful stuff—things that were even outside the curriculum at Hogwarts.

Ginny wondered if it would have been better if he was a real live person; but then perhaps it was better that he was just the way he was. She wouldn’t have met him otherwise.

It had been just after their trip to Diagon Alley that she found him. Hiding inside her Transfiguration textbook, completely inconspicuous. A little black leather Diary, with a faded name on top—Tom Marvolo Riddle.

At first, that was exactly what Ginny thought it was. Just a plain old diary. Oh, how wrong she was. It was when she wrote in it that he had answered. Nothing special. Just a simple greeting.

_Hello. My name is Tom, and this is my diary. What is your name?_

Of course, Ginny was surprised—after all, diaries weren’t supposed to talk back. Yet, this one did. Hesitantly, she answered it—him. And she was glad she did.

He told her how he was a student here at Hogwarts, some fifty years ago. How he had decided to store his memories in this diary, enchant it so that it could help another student during their time at Hogwarts. So that the student not feel as alone as he had been then.

That was what drew Ginny to him—his willingness to help cure her loneliness, and the obvious effort and time that he must have put in enchanting the diary so that it could help others. It was obviously a brilliant piece of magic—other than the limitations of the medium, Ginny had found no sign of the diary being anything other than a person. To be honest, recently it felt as if it was even transcending those limitations—she could almost feel him when they talked.

He was kind, he was funny. He was thoughtful and he was wise. He was patient and most importantly, he listened to her. It was like having a best friend that you could carry with you—talk to whenever you wished to. Pocketing her hands, she ran her fingers down the spine of the Diary stored in her robes.

She would have to write—no, _tell_ Tom about the feathers once she reached her room. She wondered what he would make of it.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter done! A simple one, with the introduction of two interesting characters—Colin Creevey and Tom Riddle. The action picks up again in the next chapter, so stay tuned for that.
> 
> Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	26. Secrets of Hogwarts

19th October 1992

The stone floor swept beneath his feet as Mark swiftly made his way towards the seventh floor. It was after curfew, and the prefects would soon begin to prowl around making their rounds. But that wouldn’t be for another half-an-hour—enough time for Mark to check up on something that had struck him late last night.

By now he had made countless trips to the Come-and-Go Room, or as he liked to call it, the Room of Requirement. Given that Corky had told him that the Room became whatever he wished it to be, Mark had tried asking virtually everything of it—a swimming pool, a billiards table, a full-fledged gym (no treadmills, obviously), a complete wood-working shop, a replica of his own bedroom in London, and the restricted section of the library. It could make secret pathways to any other part of the castle—something Mark used to surreptitiously return to Gryffindor Tower with ease—and conjure anything that didn’t break any of the exceptions to Gamp’s Law of elemental transfiguration.

But what was it like if you didn’t ask it anything? What was it when no one was around? An empty room? Another hidden library? A secret treasury? A special room that said—Congratulations on finding the secret achievement?

Or perhaps even the room itself was a conjuration—coming only into existence when asked for. In any case, Mark wanted to find out today. As he turned around the corner and headed for the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, he mentally prepared himself to word his request to the room.

‘I need to know what the Room normally looks like; I need to know what the Room normally looks like; I need to know what the Room normally looks like —’ Mark began to mentally chant as he paced in front of the wall where the door usually appeared. He was half-expecting nothing to happen, and that all of this was just his overthinking. But he was wrong, for a door did appear. A simple wooden door with a blackened brass handle—smaller and plainer than what appeared when he had asked for anything else. Mark stood in shock, unable to decide whether he actually wanted to see what was behind the door now that it was in front of him. Hesitantly he checked the corridor for any prefects. Empty. Taking a deep breath, he turned the handle and stepped inside, his eyes eager to take in what he was about to see.

Darkness. Pitch black darkness. Taking his wand out of the waistband of his pyjamas, he held it high.

‘Lumos,’ he thought—he could do this spell non-verbally now. Incanting spells aloud was something that his naturally lazy mind considered stupid and useless. It worked, and the tip of the wand lit up in a bright white glow, illuminating his surroundings faintly.

Mark furrowed his eyebrows as he looked around. There were old chairs, desks and multitude of boxes stacked everywhere around him. He approached one of them to look inside—old textbooks, broken quills, a shiny chocolate frog card. A bizarre collection of items that could be home inside any Hogwarts student’s bag. He waved his wand around and saw even more piles—there was a small stack of robes on one side, a couple of broomsticks on the other. As he raised his wand higher, he saw that these piles were stacked high—much higher than he would have imagined. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wondered just how this stack of things—easily fifteen feet high—was standing straight and stable. To his left, he could see a narrow pathway between these stacks, and as he peered along its length, he could see even more stacks flanking it on both sides. Just how much stuff was here?

“I need more light—to see the room clearly,” muttered Mark. Bright, white lights lit up in an instant, flooding the room and making Mark squint his eyes close. After a few moments, once his eyes had adjusted, he looked. The first thing that struck him was the fact that the lights were high up on the ceiling—a particularly high ceiling, easily twice as tall as the Great Hall. It was like he was standing in an aeroplane hangar—made for one big bloody plane.

Making a split decision, Mark grabbed the old broom in front of him and mounted it—he needed to gain some elevation to see exactly what was in this room. As the broom floated up, a small fear crawled up his back. He hadn’t actually checked if the broom was safe—not that he even knew how. All he needed now was a stupid fall like the on Neville had had at that flying lesson.

“What the —"

To say the room was huge would be an understatement. The Great Hall was huge. This room was easily three times that size. And it was stored full with things. It was like a small town or slum—there were pathways running between the piles in order to navigate the room, cutting the entire layout in a labyrinth of the storage monster. The stuff was old—like really, really old. One of the dresses that Mark noticed lying on the top of a pile was easily from before the times of Queen Elizabeth—the first Queen Elizabeth.

This was some form of a lost and found cum general storeroom. The things that were here—there was no telling what he might end up finding. As he floated back down, Mark began to ponder what he might do with this new information. As far as he knew, only the elves were actually aware of this place. It must have been them who stored all this stuff here.

From a logical perspective, the best way to proceed would be to take a proper inventory of everything—arrange everything by category rather than the bloody chaos that it was now. If he could give a couple of hours every week, they would be more than enough to go through all of this—after all, he still had five more years at Hogwarts. If he found anything particularly interesting, he would keep it for himself. Sort of a finder’s fee. It could be an interesting side-project.

Mark nodded to himself. This was a good plan. Inventory and archive everything in here—just like one would do for a forgotten treasure. Perhaps he should have a chat with Corky beforehand—know what the elves position was on all this. In any case, he needed to be prepared before his next visit. A better, sturdier broom, a notebook to write everything down. Figure out some way to map the room—also mark and separate everything that was already catalogued. Yes, this needed some preparation.

As for when—he decided on Saturday nights. If he got late, he could just sleep in the next morning. In any case, all he would need to do is sneak up here—while going back, he could just ask the room for an exit near the entrance to Gryffindor Tower.

Mark nodded once again. Yes, this was going to be an interesting side-project indeed.

* * *

31st October 1992

_THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED._

_ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE._

Harry stared at the writing of the wall in stunned silence. The words were shining slightly, owing to the shimmering light cast by the flaming torches.

“What’s that? Look, there—hanging underneath” Hermione pointed to a dark shadow below the torch bracket. Ron squinted through the darkness but was unable to determine the figure. As they edged nearer, they almost lost their footing, slipping on the puddle of water under their feet.

They held onto one another and continued on until they saw what they were looking for—it was Mrs Norris, Filch’s beloved cat, hanging by her tail from the torch bracket. As they processed the sight before them, Harry wondered exactly how he had found himself in this situation.

It had been a week earlier when Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor House ghost, had invited Harry and friends to his five hundredth deathday party. Harry—feeling a bit sorry for the kind ghost—had agreed to attend the party in place of the Halloween feast in the Great Hall. As usual, Hermione had been thrilled at having the opportunity to witness such a ‘fascinating event’, while Ron felt it was a dead waste of time. In the end, both accompanied Harry to the party tonight.

A party was a rather tame term for it, as it was a collection of the most bizarre things they had ever seen. Given that they studied at a school for magic, that was saying something. It was being held in one of the roomier dungeons of the castle. It was cold, damp and uncomfortable—in hindsight, exactly the kind of place a ghost would host a party. Dozens of other ghosts were in attendance, both from within Hogwarts and from outside. A few were playing some instruments in the corner as part of the orchestra—Harry refused to recognise the ear-splitting screeches they were producing as music.

There was a feast of course, fit for a king. The food consisted of rotting fish, burnt cakes, maggoty haggis, mouldy cheese, and an enormous grey cake—likely stale—shaped like a tombstone. Dead king, perhaps.

They also met some interesting people. Moaning Myrtle, the ghost of a girl who haunted the girl’s bathroom on the second floor—the one they were now standing outside of—was at the party as well. Hermione told them how Myrtle was the reason that the bathroom was always out of order—the crying ghost kept throwing tantrums, flooding all the toilets in the process. This little bit of gossip cost Hermione though, for the mischievous Peeves overheard their conversation and told about it to Myrtle, who began crying again.

If all that wasn’t enough, the Headless Hunt arrived soon after, playing a game called Head Hockey. It was pretty much what it sounded like. Harry smartened himself upon their arrival—it was the primary reason he was invited by Nearly Headless Nick to the party. Nick had been applying for years to join the hunt—a group of ghosts exclusive to spirits that had been properly beheaded when they were alive. But Nearly Headless wasn’t Fully Headless, and his application was always rejected. That’s where Harry came in; his job was to act intimidated by Nick’s presence so that the Hunt could be convinced of the ghost’s worthiness. Harry tried, and so did Ron and Hermione, but they weren’t convinced by three kids.

After that, they decided that they had witnessed enough ghostly activities for the evening. Hoping to catch some dessert from the other, edible feast, they began to walk towards the Great Hall with their rumbling stomachs. They almost made it—reaching near the steps to the entrance hall—when Harry heard the eerie voice again.

“ _… rip … tear … kill …_ ”

He had heard that voice before, in that same cold murderous tone a few weeks ago. He had been in detention with Professor Lockhart, helping him answer all his fan mail late in the evening. At first, he had thought it to be a trick played by his mind. After all, Lockhart didn’t hear a single thing. Only Harry had heard it then, and only Harry heard it now. When Harry told them about it, both Ron and Hermione looked at him as if he’d grown a second head.

“ _… soo hungry … so long … kill … time to kill …_ ”

Kill. That had been the clincher. Someone was going to kill, and Harry had to stop it before it did. He began to sprint up the stairs, tracking the voice, shouting at Hermione and Ron to follow him. He ran, he ran. And he ended up here, in front of this wall with painted with a mysterious message.

“We should leave,” said Ron. Harry turned towards him—his voice was sombre, his face pale.

“Maybe we should try and help —” Hermione began awkwardly, but Ron interrupted again.

“No. Trust me, we _don’t_ want to be found here.”

Harry found himself nodding in agreement. Whatever this was—it wasn’t good. Before they could move away, however, the sound of chattering students filled in the corridor. The feast had ended, and the students were leaving the Great Hall.

Within minutes, the corridor became packed with students—students who, on seeing the hanging cat, fell into complete silence. No one spoke for a few moments, as everyone stood in shock. Finally, a voice broke out from the crowd, its tone menacing and hateful. It was Draco Malfoy.

“Enemies of the Heir, beware! You’ll be next, Mudbloods!”

* * *

4th November 1992

“Professor, can you tell us anything about the Chamber of Secrets?”

Ron watched in amazement as Hermione’s words silenced the class and drew all attention to her. Even the usually unfazed (and ghostly) Professor Binns just blinked in surprise. Ron knew Hermione was desperate to know more about the chamber, but he didn’t think she would actually ask Binns about it.

Now, even though a few days had passed since Halloween and their discovery of the ominous message about the Chamber, the whole school was still fraught with wild rumours and gossip. Everyone was on an edge; such a direct threat had never been made before—not in anyone’s memory. Though the matter of pure-blood supremacy was something everyone in the magical world recognised, propounding it like this was in not considered appropriate.

On top of it, there was the attack on Mrs Norris—many students had been disturbed by the fate of the cat. Professor Dumbledore had assured them that the cat wasn’t dead—just petrified. The cure would be a Mandrake Restorative Draught, brewed once the baby Mandrakes in greenhouse matured. So, there wasn’t actually a chance of permanent damage—but that wasn’t enough to stub out the slowly spreading panic. After all, there had been an attack, and it could be a student next.

To be honest, Ron didn’t care much for the devil of the cat. Although he felt a sliver of sympathy for Filch, the fact that the blasted cat would not hunt them for loitering around was something refreshing to think about. Hermione had chided him when he had said that out loud, calling him ‘insensitive towards the plight of animals.’

Of the three of them, Hermione had been the one affected the most. She didn’t show it of course; Even when Harry Hermione and he had discussed what the message on the wall could actually mean, she had talked in her usual clinical manner, showing no sign of being disturbed by it. But it was the little things—changes in her general behaviour that Ron noticed. She was always on edge—jumping slightly back when surprised, clutching her books and bag closer to herself when walking, and being more reserved and lost in her thoughts when she was around them. She was spending all her free time in the library—something she hadn’t done before until it was a week before the exams.

Ron had initially thought that she was just nervous, unsure of what to do in such a time—scared even. But he had been wrong, as he found out earlier today. Turned out, Hermione Granger wasn’t someone who hid in the library when she was scared. No, she hadn’t been hiding—instead she had spent the past few days ring to scour the library for any reference to the Chamber of Secrets. She even remembered reading a small section about it in _Hogwarts a History_. She had been trying to get her hands on of the copies in the library since she had left her own back at home. Nobody had ever said that Hermione Granger was anything but persistent.

It was the thing Ron secretly admired in her—he would never tell it to her, of course. As much as she was persistent, most of her efforts were directed at him and Harry. It irritated Ron to no end when she kept nagging him about his schoolwork—but he admired her for it nonetheless.

Professor Binns—still partly in shock from Hermione’s question—shook his head before answering.

“My subject, Miss Grant, is History of Magic,” Binns wheezed, his voice dry. “In it, we rely on facts, not legends or myths, understood? Now, back to the —”

Ron turned to see what had caught Binns attention. At the back of the class, a single hand was raised in the air—Mark’s. Given that the boy usually slumbered through the class—yet still getting an E on the tests—everyone, including Professor Binns, was surprised to see him awake and attentive.

“Yes, Mr —?”

“Smith, sir. I have a question—wouldn’t you say that myths and legends have some factual basis for their existence? After all, this isn’t some grandmother’s tale we’re talking about, are we? Madam Bagshot even mentions it in _Hogwarts: A History_.”

Ron found himself nodding along with the rest of the class as they turned back to look at Professor Binns.

“You could argue that I suppose,” said the ghostly professor, scratching his non-corporeal chin in deep thought. Yet, after a moment, he returned back to his dismissiveness. “But the legend of the chamber is so ludicrous that it cannot possibly be true.”

He was about to return to the lecture on the convention of 1289 when he noticed his usually dull students rapt in attention.

“Very well then,” he grumbled as he put the chalk down on the table. “Hmmm. You all know that Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years ago—the exact year is a matter of debate. That is irrelevant for our discussion.” Coming back to the story, he continued, “Hogwarts was founded by four of the greatest warlocks of that time—Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, Godric Gryffindor, and lastly Salazar Slytherin.”

“For a few years, the founders cooperated with each other, their concern primarily being to seek out youngsters who showed signs of magic and bringing them to the castle for protection and education—for this was an age when magic was feared by the muggles, and witches and wizards suffered much persecution for showing any signs of it.” Taking a pause Binns added, “This we know for a fact.”

“After a few decades, since the school was established, a rift began to grow between Slytherin and Hufflepuff. There are few documents which reference this—their authenticity debatable,” he waved his hand dismissively. “Anyway, Lord Slytherin was of the opinion that entry to the school be restricted, and their admittance selective.” Looking at the confused faces on some of the students, Binns elaborated further. “He believed that magical learning should be kept within the known magical families, since the students of Muggle parentage were likely to be untrustworthy.”

“This was, in effect, quite opposite to the beliefs of Lady Helga. Some sources say that during the founding of the school, she had campaigned for squibs and even open-minded muggles to be allowed admittance—but that is mostly conjecture,” Binns droned on.

Ron listened in rapt attention—even though he had grown up in the wizarding world, all of this was news to him. Why wasn’t Binns teaching all of this in his normal classes? Who cared about some stupid rebellions?

“Lord Godric,” continued Binns as he paced—or rather floated—around in front of the classroom, “who by now was a supporter of Lady Helga and her position on the matter, defended her when the argument turned explosive. The exact argument is unknown, for there is a possibility other matters may have been involved, but not recorded. In any case, the argument concluded with Lord Slytherin leaving the castle for good.”

“Now this is all that historical sources tell us—ones that are reliable anyways,” Binns said. “But these facts have been obscured by the fanciful legend of the Chamber of Secrets. The story goes that Lord Slytherin—who had been in charge of the construction of the castle—built a hidden chamber which the others knew nothing about.”

“According to the legend, Slytherin, when he left the school, sealed the Chamber of Secrets by magical means so that none would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at the school. This heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber, and unleash the horror within, using it to purge the school of all the untrustworthy.”

There was silence as he finished the story, but not the one usually found in his class. There was unease in the air as everyone looked to the professor, hoping for more.

“This whole legend has no basis in any facts, just a story passed on through the times,” he said. “As for the Chamber; well the whole school has been searched for its existence many, many, times. And by the most learned witches, wizards and the most famous Cursebreakers. It does not exist. Just a tale told to frighten the gullible.”

By its own volition, Ron’s hand went up in the air. Every eye in the room was soon upon him.

“Sir—what exactly did you mean by the ‘horror within’ the Chamber?” Ron asked. He found his throat was rather parched. The whole class now turned back to look at Binns, who seemed hesitant to answer.

“There is believed to be some sort of monster, which the Heir alone can control,” said Professor Binns dismissively.

“Wouldn’t it be dead already, after a thousand years?” Mark interrupted; his hands folded. “Assuming it existed in the first place.”

“That is _irrelevant_ Schmidt,” Binns said as he shuffled through his notes. “There is no monster, as there is no Chamber.”

“But sir,” Seamus interrupted, “if the Chamber can only be opened by Slytherin’s true heir, no one else would be able to find it, would they?”

“Nonsense, O’Flaherty.” Professor Binns was now aggravated. “If a long succession of Hogwarts Heads—the greatest witches and wizards of their times, haven’t found a thing —”

“But, Professor,” Parvati Patil piped in, “you’d probably have to use Dark Magic to open it —” But Binns had had enough.

“Miss Pennyfeather!” Binns had had enough. “Just because a wizard _doesn’t_ use Dark Magic does not mean he _can’t_ ,” he snapped. “If the likes of Dumbledore haven’t found the Chamber, then it does not exist. No further questions.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we have it. Another chapter done, and the mystery officially begins. I have taken some liberties with the lore of Hogwarts and the Room of Requirement, things that just made sense to me. I hope you like them as well.
> 
> As for the upgrading, Chapters 9, 10, and 11 are done. They've turned out pretty good, especially the parts about Harry. They all were a bit iffy before—I had been in a hurry to get to the good parts. Now after reflection, I've managed to pump in some life in them. Content wise, I've added a short description of Quidditch rules—something that I had also skipped in the previous version. Now that I've decided to make the story more robust for the fandom blind, I needed to include them.
> 
> Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	27. Going Rogue

7th November 1992

Harry sat in the infirmary, his arm flapping around like a noodle. He never thought he could have hated someone as much as he hated Lockhart right now.

The match against Slytherin today was something that they had been looking forward to for weeks. Wood had been even more aggressive during the practices this year since they had missed the Quidditch Cup last year. Harry had his own reasons to win; Draco Malfoy was the seeker opposite him, and Harry sorely wanted an opportunity to wipe the smug smile off the Slytherin’s face.

The moment the match began, Harry quickly flew higher than everyone else. It was a new strategy Wood had him practice—get a broader view of the entire field from higher up in the air to find the Snitch faster and avoid being tailed. It would have worked well on a good day, but today hadn’t been one of them.

It began to rain just minute into the match, affecting the general visibility on the field. Although it affected all players equally, it was slightly worse for Harry since he was a Seeker. On top of it, the Slytherin team quickly gained a lead of sixty points; equipped with Nimbus 2001s, their Chasers were easily dominating the match. This only raised the stakes further on Harry—at this rate, he would have to catch the Snitch as fast as possible to have any chance of a Gryffindor win.

But fate was not on Harry’s side, and it pushed him to his limit. It happened when Malfoy approached him in the air—zooming around to show off the speed of his broom. When Harry gave no visible reaction, Malfoy resorted to one of his unimaginative taunts. Harry didn’t even get a chance to reply, for at that very moment Harry spotted a Bludger heading straight at him. He managed to dodge it in time to see George chasing it, his Beater’s bat in hand. Harry saw him smack the Bludger at one of the Slytherin players, but for some reason, it didn’t work. Moments after being hit by George, the Bludger turned mid-flight and headed straight back at Harry. Harry dodged it again, and George whacked it once more, this time towards Malfoy. Yet, the Bludger still returned, swerving like a boomerang.

This wasn’t normal—as far as Harry knew, Bludgers were supposed to pursue and unseat as many people as possible, not concentrate on a single player like this.

Deciding to put some distance between himself and the heavy ball chasing him, Harry leaned forward and zoomed off towards the other end of the field. He dodged and weaved through the other players—mainly Slytherin—in an inspired effort to lose the Bludger in between. It didn’t work, and the Bludger still focused on just him, whistling along behind like a bullet with his name written on it.

In a last-ditch hope, Harry headed towards Fred, who was lying in wait for the Bludger to appear. With a huge swing, the Gryffindor beater hit the Bludger with a loud crack. The blow should have thrown the Bludger back to the other end of the field. But it didn’t. The Bludger still returned, as if magnetically attracted to Harry.

It was obvious that the Bludger was tampered with, so they called for a time-out. Madam Hooch, sceptical of their claim, checked the Bludgers for any signs of tampering. She found none. A more thorough investigation could have been carried out, but that would have required Gryffindor to forfeit the current match. Given that Slytherin had a lead of eighty points by now, Harry had insisted that Fred and George concentrate on keeping the other Bludger off the chasers. He would deal with the rogue one on his own. They had objected at first, but after Harry managed to convince Wood, they had to grudgingly accept.

A small part of Harry had wanted to believe that the Bludger would leave him alone; of course, that wasn’t the case. The moment he was back in the air, Harry had been forced to do loopbacks and twirls and all sorts of ridiculous manoeuvring just to avoid the ball hell-bent on pursuing him. Weaving through the field like an errant fly, Harry narrowly kept ahead of the Bludger at all times.

Harry did have an advantage; unlike him, the Bludger was small and heavy, unable to perform sharp turns due to its momentum. Harry exploited it as much as he could, even briefly managing to increase the distance between himself and the pursuing Bludger. His decision to handle the Bludger by himself did pay off, as the Gryffindor team managed to reduce Slytherin’s lead by thirty points.

That was when Harry had seen it; The Golden Snitch, hovering just behind Malfoy’s ear, who was too busy trying to ridicule Harry’s manoeuvres.

A smirk appeared on Harry’s face as he shot straight at Malfoy; the sheer terror that gripped Malfoy’s face on seeing Harry barrelling straight at him with a Bludger in tow was a sight that Harry happily etched in his mind.

It was a perfect ending to an enthralling match; at least for everybody else. The moment Harry’s hand closed around the Snitch, he heard a loud, sickening crack. It took a moment for Harry to register where it had come from, but the sharp pain that soon shot up his arm was a clear indicator. The Bludger had rammed into his outstretched arm, breaking the bone instantly.

It was a mixed feeling; there was the pain, obviously, from the broken arm. There was also relief, as Harry miraculously managed to land on the pitch without further injury. There was some joy—Gryffindor had managed to win the match. But for Harry, there was a sense of accomplishment. He had managed to outfly Malfoy, managed to outmanoeuvre a seemingly rogue Bludger out for his blood—at least for most of the match—and most importantly, he had managed to swipe the Snitch right from under Malfoy’s nose.  

Soon, amidst the cheers and the euphoria, the pain from the broken arm dulled Harry’s senses—something he shouldn’t have let happen in hindsight. In the haze of the pain, he remembered Wood and the others cheering him, awaiting Madam Pomfrey’s arrival. Harry remembered Lockhart arriving, and claiming that he could mend the bone. He remembered trying to protest, saying he would rather wait for Madam Pomfrey. But Lockhart had insisted on doing the spell himself, waving off Harry’s concerns.

What Harry did know for sure was this—one moment he had a human looking arm, the next he had a flesh noodle attached to his shoulder; instead of healing it, Lockhart had vanished all the bones in Harry’s arm.

“Well, the bones are no longer broken,” Lockhart had said, before disappearing off somewhere.

If Harry was being honest, it was probably a good thing that Lockhart removed the bones from his arm; Harry might have actually strangled the man in anger.

* * *

Harry cursed inwardly as he opened his eyes. It was dark—near midnight perhaps. He squinted in the darkness to take a look at his arm; it wasn’t exactly difficult—the excruciating waves of pain rolling off his injury pointed Harry’s gaze in the right direction. Immobilized in the cast, Harry could feel the Skele-Grow doing its job inside his arm. He could literally feel splinters of bone growing inside the flesh; something Harry would have found disgusting in normal circumstances. He wondered if the pain from his arm was what had woken him. Then, he suddenly felt something on his forehead.

“Aah,” he cried out in surprise. Looking around, Harry noticed large eyeballs peering at him through the darkness—eyeballs he had seen once before in Privet Drive.

“Dobby?!”   

As Harry’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed that the house-elf looked devastated. A single tear was running down its long, pointed nose.

“Harry Potter came back to school,” Dobby whispered miserably. “Dobby warned Harry Potter again and again, sir. Why didn’t you heed Dobby, Harry Potter? Why did you not go home when you missed the train?”

Harry tried sitting up, pushing down on the pillows. It was difficult to move when his arm was trapped in a sling.

“What are you doing here Dobby?” Harry turned towards the elf. “And how did you find out that I missed the train?” he asked after a moment.

Dobby’s eyes darted around, trying to avoid Harry’s gaze. Realisation dawned on Harry.

“You did it,” he said slowly. “You made the barrier stop Ron and me from getting onto the Platform!”

“Dobby did, sir,” replied the elf, nodding his head vigorously, his large bat-like ears flapping. “Dobby lay in wait for Harry Potter to arrive and sealed the gateway before he entered. Dobby did not mean to trouble Harry Potter’s Wheezy, sir.”

The elf then held both his arms in front of him. Harry noticed that they had been bandaged with dirty linen.

“Dobby had to iron his hands afterwards, sir, but Dobby didn’t care, for Dobby thought Harry Potter was now safe. Never did Dobby dream Harry Potter would get to school another way.” Dobby finished, his body rocking back and forth.

Looking at Dobby’s fingers made Harry sick. They were ironed? And Dobby did that to himself? Harry knew about Dobby punishing himself for going against his master’s wishes, but he wouldn’t have imagined something like this. Still, the elf had gotten him into trouble, and Harry tried to reluctantly chide him for his actions.

“You nearly got Ron and me expelled, Dobby. You know what it’s like for me at the Dursleys. I can’t lose Hogwarts, Dobby.”

“But you mustn’t be here, sir! It is not safe for you! Dobby was so shocked to know that Harry Potter was back at Hogwarts, Dobby let his master’s dinner burn! Dobby never had such a flogging before!”

Harry slumped back onto his pillows. Hearing dobby speak of his life brought unpleasant memories to the surface.

“Does that happen often? You—getting punished like that?”

Dobby smiled weakly but remained silent.

Realising that he wasn’t going to get any answers like this, Harry decided to take charge of the conversation.

“Why are you here now Dobby?” Harry asked. “Your plan clearly failed. I made it to Hogwarts.”

“Ah, but Harry Potter got hurt in the match. You see sir, tis’ not safe for you here.”

“It was a rogue Bludger. That doesn’t happen usually—” Harry saw a brief gleam of victory in Dobby’s large eyes, and his suspicions were aroused.

“Wait a second! You tampered the Bludger!”

Harry’s accusation broke through and Dobby’s face fell.

“Dobby thought his Bludger would be enough to—”

“To what? Kill me?” Harry was mad. “If my arm wasn’t in this sling right now—”

“No! No!” Dobby wailed, “Not kill you, sir, never kill you!” Dobby wrung his hand on the pillow cover that he was wearing. “Dobby wants to save Harry Potter’s life! Grievously injure, yes. But only enough to be sent home!” he pleaded.

“Oh, is that all?” said Harry angrily. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you wanted me sent home in pieces?”

“If only you knew sir, if only you knew!” Dobby’s tears were flowing freely now. An odd expression gripped his face; a mix of sorrow and fear. Turning to Harry the elf started to explain.

“Dobby remembers how it was when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was powerful, sir. Dobby remembers how the house-elves were treated then. We house-elves, we the lowly, the enslaved, the dregs of the magical world!” Dobby clasped his hands in front of himself as if praying to some invisible deity. “Before the Dark Lord’s power was broken, the house-elves were forced to serve his supporters, sir. Treated like vermin, sir! Of course, Dobby is still treated like that.”

“But when Harry Potter survived! Oh, it was a new dawn, sir! You shone like a beacon of hope! The old masters were taken away, and the lives of house-elves bettered.”

Unwillingly, Harry found himself drawn into Dobby’s story. He’d always felt that the people were exaggerating his role when they spoke of those times. The way Dobby told it… Was it really that bad before?

His thoughts were interrupted when Dobby continued.

“But now… bad things are happening again sir. Evil plots sir, the most evil plots—things no decent wizard —” he trailed off. Looking into Harry’s eyes, Dobby spoke directly to him.

“This is why Harry Potter must leave! He is the hope for the house-elves, for all of us. Dobby cannot let Harry Potter stay here now that history is to repeat itself, now that the Chamber of Secrets is open once more —”

Dobby froze; his face gripped in horror. Swiftly he moved to Harry’s bedside table and grabbed the water jug that was kept on it before cracking it over his head. The blow toppled him on the floor, the water spilling everywhere. Harry heard the elf mutter “Bad dobby… bad dobby…” between soft sobs.

“So, the Chamber of Secrets? It’s real then?” Harry whispered. That was what Dobby was trying to warn about all this time? Suddenly Harry remembered something that Dobby had said.

“Wait—you said it’s been opened before. When? Who?”

“Please, Harry Potter, go home.” Dobby looked at Harry tiredly. “‘tis too dangerous, sir. Dobby begs you, please…”

Harry wasn’t giving up lightly. Dobby knew about the chamber—had known, even in the summer.

“I’m not muggleborn, Dobby—How can I be in danger from the Chamber?”

“Do not ask this of Dobby, sir, ask no more of poor Dobby.” He climbed on to Harry’s bed. “The dark deeds that are planned—Harry Potter will be in danger—you will be in danger.”

“You know who’s opened the chamber?” Harry was desperate now. With his good hand, he gripped Dobby’s arm. “Tell me Dobby! I can help. Tell me! One of my best friends is a muggle-born. If what you’re saying is true, she’ll be in danger, more so than me!”

An expression of understanding dawned on Dobby’s face.

“Harry Potter is too noble. He thinks of his friends, even when Harry Potter’s own life is in danger. Dobby sees now. Harry Potter will not leave Hogwarts. Dobby cannot help Harry Potter anymore,” he said dejectedly, hopping off of Harry’s bed. He looked up at Harry.

“Dobby asks one last time sir. For Harry Potter’s own good. Please go home, sir.”

“Who is it Dobby?” Harry asked coldly. “Who’s opened the Chamber? Who opened it last time?”

Dobby shook his head vigorously, his face contorted in pain.

“Dobby is sorry, Harry Potter,” the elf whispered before disappearing with a pop.

* * *

Mark rocked his head as he moved through the corridor, silently humming the lyrics to an AC/DC song. Trying to avoid encountering any of the patrolling prefects, he crept his way toward the Room of Requirement for his weekly archiving session.

The archiving was going even better than he had initially anticipated. After a brief chat with Corky—who had confirmed that he was free to do as he wished with the stuff he found—he had managed to create an efficient workflow for the behemoth of a task that awaited him. Thankfully, the room had been of help—at his request, it expanded even more, creating enough space for him to properly examine everything. In the past two sessions, he had managed to sort through a total of five piles. Apart from unsalvageable garbage—old, broken quills and the like—he found old textbooks, notes, robes, and a lot of broken furniture. Mark arranged all of these into separate sections, noting down everything on a notebook. To his luck, he even found a couple of old Dicta-quills—Mark immediately started to use one to record the findings, speeding up the sorting process even quicker, while the other he pocketed for his personal use.

The feast on Halloween had caused him to miss out on his weekly session. Originally, Mark had planned on proceeding to the Room after the feast, but the Chamber message snuffed that plan out pretty quickly.

Everyone had been on an edge ever since that day. Neville had even warned him not to go out at night like this, but Mark just found it hilarious. He wasn’t really sure why people were taking all this so seriously. It was likely just a prank gone too far by one of the older students. Fred and George had told Mark that Mr Filch was a squib—a non-magical born to magical parents—and about the general attitude that the magical world had about squibs. They were looked down upon and ridiculed, some even being kicked out of their own families. Given that, it wasn’t surprising that someone targeted Mr Filch’s cat. Some people were stupid and cruel, and sometimes they went too far. It wasn’t surprising at all; especially not for Mark.

After all, it wasn’t just people like Mr Filch that the magical community looked down upon; it was everything non-magical or non-magical in origin. It was so ingrained into everyone that even his friends had trouble understanding what Mark found offensive.

Of course, there were leagues of difference between them and people like Draco Malfoy. His friends were ignorant of their own behaviour, but they appreciated non-magical things and were willing and eager to learn more. Draco, on the other hand, was someone who had learnt to hate the non-magical right from his childhood.

Mark smiled to himself as he recalled the Quidditch match from earlier today. Sitting on the bench, he hadn’t been able to see much of it in the pouring rain. But, to his luck, the final catch by Harry had happened right in front of him. The look on Draco’s face as he probably shat his pants was priceless.

As Mark turned around the corner, any further thoughts were stubbed as a flash of red caught his eye. Squinting, he peered up the corridor, only to see the unmistakable red hair of Ginny Weasley turn around the corner.

‘What’s she doing out after curfew?’ Mark wondered. As he started following her, he chuckled to himself as he realised what she must be up to. ‘On her way to set up some prank, no doubt. Making her brothers proud.’

Mark picked up his pace as he tried to reduce the distance between Ginny and himself. From what Fred and George had told him—admitted in private, mind you—Ginny was even better than them at pranks. Obviously, she wasn’t as good with the trick potions and charms that they excelled at. But what she lacked in skill, she made up with creativity. Both Mark and Neville had squirmed at the very thought of the ‘underwear prank’ that the twins had mentioned.

That was what was occupying Mark’s thoughts; given the possibility of a prank from Ginny, it was better to be safe than sorry. Knowing what she was up to would definitely be useful. Maybe he would even sneak up on her to give her a bit of a scare.

As he followed her, Mark tried to guess where she was setting up the prank. Her direction seemed to indicate the Great Hall; it was the likely target for a school-wide prank. Mark didn’t think she would target a single person or house; unlike her brothers, Ginny had a much more refined sense of fun—something Mark had appreciated on the Express.

Mark’s guess, however, turned out to be false when Ginny took a wrong turn, heading left towards the Charms corridor. She wasn’t headed towards the Great Hall. Before Mark could ponder on her destination any further, Ginny took another turn—this time disappearing behind a tapestry depicting the goblin rebellion of 1612. Mark moved the tapestry aside to find a secret passage behind it; a passage he had no idea existed.

Mark’s respect for Ginny grew, and so did his curiosity. She had come to Hogwarts barely two months ago. When and how had she found this passage? Did the twins tell her about it? Was it on that map of theirs?

As he moved through the pitch-black passage, Mark’s mind started growing uneasy. He couldn’t point it out yet, but something was off. The more he thought about it the more the unease grew.

He was finally able to point it out. It was the way Ginny was moving. She wasn’t sneaking around, but walking with purpose and confidence—something that was unlike a student going to set up a prank.

The moment Mark exited the secret passage, he got a sinking feeling in his stomach. He was standing in a corridor on the second-floor. Specifically, the corridor where the message about the Chamber had been found, along with the petrified body of Mr Filch’s cat.

As realisation began to set in, Mark slowly crept towards the bathroom. The door was open, and he could hear Ginny’s voice coming from within—he couldn’t make sense of her words. Taking a deep breath, Mark peeked around the doorway.

“— _sssHahshshhaaSSS_ ”

Inside, Ginny was standing in front of the sinks, hissing at them. The sinks began to move, sliding away right out of sight, leaving a large pipe exposed—large enough for a man to go through. Ginny hissed again.

“ _SSsaaShshahaasSaaa_ ”

The pipe began to contort itself, turning into a stone staircase going down. Ginny walked straight towards it, and soon disappeared from view.

Closing his eyes, Mark pinched himself. No this was not a dream, nor was it some horrible nightmare. Something was very, very wrong here. As he thought and re-thought through all the possible explanations for what he had just seen, Mark found his feet making their way towards the staircase. His sweaty palm encountered cold, rough wood; Mark realised he had already drawn out his wand. Taking an audible breath, Mark began going down the staircase. Whatever was going on—he was going to get at the bottom of this.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go!
> 
> Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	28. Tom Marvolo Riddle

7th November 1992

The dark pipe seemed endless. As Mark slowly descended into the depths below the castle, his mind raced with all the possible explanations for why Ginny was going down a secret entrance through the girl’s bathroom. And all of them pointed to only one conclusion—that this was the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, and that Ginny was the one who had opened it.

But why? She obviously was _not_ the Heir of Slytherin; unless she wasn’t a Weasley. Mark shook his head silently. No, that was ridiculous; besides the family resemblance was too strong. Perhaps you didn’t need to be the Heir to enter, and the legend was incorrect. But then, why would Ginny want to attack Mr Filch’s cat? What had he done to upset her? Plus, she didn’t seem the vindictive sort. If she had anything against Filch, she probably would have pranked the hell out of him, not used some dangerous magic.

His thoughts were interrupted as he reached the base of the stairs. Clutching his wand tightly, he squinted to see if he had been noticed. There was no one around. Steeling himself, he walked softly through the large, damp tunnel he found himself in, heading for the general direction of the cold draft that he felt. After a while, something crunched under his feet.

‘Shit.’

Mark stood completely still, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. Closing his eyes, he tried to sense if anyone had heard the noise. After a couple of seconds—which felt like an eternity to Mark’s adrenaline addled brain—he finally relaxed. There was no sign that he had been spotted. Since he couldn’t exactly use a Lumos spell, Mark gently bent down and felt for what it was that had crunched under his feet.

Bones. Small bones, belonging to rats and the like. Something had eaten them and left the remains here. That meant there was a predator—which meant that the legend had been right. Another ball of lead settled into Mark’s stomach as he gulped down his fear. The monster of the chamber had been real after all. He tried to reassure himself that it was most likely dead now, after a thousand years. It didn’t exactly work.

“ _SShhShahshhhSah_ ”

Mark heard the loud hissing noises once again, and they were coming from up ahead. Taking a deep breath, he wiped his now sweaty palms on his trousers. Crouching, he evened his weight on the floor below and crept ahead. His wand was almost twitching, and he could swear he was able to hear the sound of the water behind the damp walls of the tunnel; Mark reckoned it must be underneath the Black Lake.

Soon he reached the end of the tunnel, and his eyes were met with an incredible sight. A huge entrance stood in front of him, bordered by carvings of snakes on a greenish stone. The eyes of each serpent were adorned with a blackish gemstone of some sort—probably agate or obsidian. Mark shivered slowly as he averted his gaze—the black beady eyes of reptiles was exactly what creeped him out the most.

Trying to ignore the otherwise imposing entrance, Mark tried focusing behind it. On the other side lay a long and dimly lit room. Its ceiling was high; so high that it disappeared into the shadows, held up by towering stone pillars adorned with even more carved serpents. There was no doubt in his mind anymore; this was Salazar Slytherin’s Secret Chamber.

“ _SshSaaahShaas_ ”

The hissing drew Mark’s attention again and he looked towards its source—Ginny. There she was, standing at the far end of the chamber, her flaming red hair bathed under the odd, greenish gloom that filled the place. Bile threatened to rise up Mark’s throat as his mind began to accept the implications of what he was seeing, and a sudden urge to just barge in and confront Ginny hit him like a train. Yet, he somehow managed to fight it, the curious and tactical side of his mind winning over with the simple reasoning that it was wiser to just observe for now. Clenching his fist, he silently crept into the chamber and quickly made his way to the closest stone pillar for cover. Peering around to keep an eye on Ginny, he mentally began to map his surroundings.

The chamber was paved with smooth tiled stone, interspersed with the towering stone pillars he had seen before. Mark noticed that they weren’t laid out in a linear fashion; instead, they seemed to be placed in some sort of alternating pattern—probably hexagonal. Each of them had an ornate bracket made of blackish metal, on which hung magical torches glowing with a greenish flame. Their placement provided an opportunity for Mark; since the torches were about ten feet off the ground, the immediate space around each pillar was still in shadows. If Mark moved from one pillar to the next, he could manage to get near Ginny without being noticed. Maybe even —

“ _SSssshsssaassssaaasSh_ ”

The hissing interrupted his thoughts again; only this time, it hadn’t come from Ginny. It was much louder and deeper, with a feral undertone that made Mark’s blood run cold. There was no doubt in Mark’s heart anymore—it had belonged to the monster.

As Mark peered at the end of the chamber, he suddenly noticed a massive statue standing against the wall—so massive that its features just seemed like the part of the wall. He had to crane his neck upwards to even see its head. Squinting his eyes against the dark, he studied its face. It had an ancient and apish undertone to it, with a beard that was longer and thinner than Headmaster Dumbledore. Mark realised that this must be a statue of Salazar Slytherin himself.

It was fortunate that Mark’s gaze was fixed on the statue’s head, for what happened next would have given him a heart attack otherwise. A rumbling sound of grinding stone echoed through the chamber as the statue of Salazar Slytherin opened its mouth to reveal a gaping hole within, the sound of Ginny’s hissing mixing in with it like an other-worldly chant.

“ _ssSSaahshhaass_ —”

Mark had had enough. Deciding that there was sufficient cause to justify it, he closed his eyes and opened up his legilimency to its full extent—the first time he had done so since the encounter with Quirrell in June. As the flood poured in, his mind began to finally interpret the hissing sounds Ginny was making.

“— _take care of the Mudbloods in the name of Salazar, greatest of the Hogwarts Four. And remember to lower your eyelids as you present yourself._ ”

The reply came promptly, from a mind much too large and much too simple to be human.

“ _As you command, master._ ”

Mark opened his eyes again, and a small part of him immediately wished that he hadn’t. The mouth of the statue was fully open now, and from the huge black hole that had been revealed emerged the monster of Slytherin; an enormous serpent, with a foul greenish skin and body as thick as a tree. As it slithered down the body of the statue like a horrific reptilian vomit, Mark estimated that it was nearly forty feet long.

Finally, the snake coiled down on the floor at the base of the statue, bowing its head down in submission. As Ginny had instructed, its eyes were shut. For what reason, Mark had no clue. Soon, Ginny began hissing again.

“ _Good. Today we shall resume the work I began all those years ago. Once the purification process is underway, we will strike_ —”

Mark literally stepped back in surprise. _Years ago?_ Ginny was eleven. There was no way she could have come here before. None of this was making any sense, and Mark furiously racked his brain for any explanation that did. Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice that he was no longer in cover.

“Well, well, well.”

It took a moment for Mark to realise that the voice was speaking English; when it did, a cold chill ran through his back. He looked up to see Ginny standing in front of him with her head cocked, a slight smirk on her face

“What do we have here?”

It was Ginny’s voice. But something was off about it. As if someone else was —

‘Of course,’ Mark said to himself, as the penny dropped. Suddenly everything made sense, giving him the answer that had been in front of him the whole time: Ginny was being possessed.

“Just your friend Mark,” he finally replied, now standing up straight. “You recognise me, don’t you, Ginny?”

“Ah. The mudblood,” said Ginny. “Friends? You think I would stoop so low to actually be friends with you?”

“No, not you,” said Mark. “But Ginny considers me a friend. Whoever you are, you’re not welcome. It’s time for you to leave her.”

Mark clutched his wand tighter as he saw Ginny cackle in front of him. Twirling her wand in her hand she turned back at him.

“But I didn’t force my way in, Smith. _She_ let me into her heart. Pouring out all her emotions, like the naïve little girl she is.”

So Mark was right. The girl in front of him wasn’t Ginny—not completely anyways. Not when her voice was colder and sinister than anything he had ever heard before. Suddenly, she turned to him with a psychotic glee on her face

“ _Oh Tom, I feel so alone,”_ said the girl in front of him, mocking his friend in her own tender voice. _“No one’s ever understood me like you, Tom … I’m so glad I’ve got you to confide in._ ”

Whoever this Tom was, he was the one possessing Ginny right now. Somehow, he had gotten a hold of Ginny. Somehow gotten her to confide in him. But how? Where did he meet her? Someone might have noticed wouldn’t —

“That diary she was writing in—that’s how you did it!” Mark exclaimed, seething in anger. “You sick son of a bitch,” he spat.

Tom cackled through Ginny once again, and something of that laugh felt familiar to Mark.

“Right in one. And confide she did. She poured her soul into that diary and opened herself for me to take hold in return. Of course, she had no idea what was happening.” Tom added as an afterthought.

“ _Dear Tom, I think I’m losing my memory. There are rooster feathers all over my robes and I don’t know how they got there—Dear Tom, I can’t remember what I did on the night of Halloween, but a cat was attacked and my hands are stained red.”_

Mark watched Tom as he mocked Ginny’s innocence. Tom. Why was that name familiar? Something about this whole situation was ringing bells in his head—reeking of déjà vu. Possession, unnatural red eyes, the name Tom —

“It’s you, isn’t it?” said Mark, the pieces finally falling into place. “You’re Voldemort.”

“Impressive. I didn’t think a mudblood like you would figure it out,” said Tom, a mild expression of amusement on Ginny’s face. “Yes, I am him. But then Ginny did speak a lot about you. How you seemed to be the only one in Hogwarts with any concern about her. You nearly foiled my plans, you know.”

“That’s not true. She has family here. Friends.”

Mark noticed that Ginny’s eyes flashed back to their usual warmth for a sliver of a moment before reverting back to their previous cold self.

“Really?” asked Tom/Ginny. “Brothers who haven’t spoken to her since the welcoming feast? Who didn’t notice their sister disappearing off after curfew? Who didn’t notice her fading health, as I begin to claim her soul for my own?”

“So that’s how you tricked her? Trying to turn her against those that she cares for?” asked Mark. “Just because nobody seemed to give you any love, you decided others shouldn’t get it either?”

The cold eyes behind Ginny flashed in recognition, and Mark realised that he had touched a nerve. Alright then. Two could play this game.

“I’m right, aren’t I? Let me guess. Abusive parents?” Mark shook his head after a moment. “No, that would make you yearn for love,” he remarked, pacing a bit as he thought. “Now, an orphan? That’s possible. Maybe —”

“This is quite the interesting analysis, Smith,” Tom/Ginny interrupted, “but I’m afraid I must cut it short. There are— _things_ —that need to be done.”

Mark stopped pacing and turned to face Tom.

“Not before you leave Ginny.”

“Really? And what if I refuse?” Tom scoffed in amusement. Mark gave a smirk as he projected directly into Ginny’s mind.

‘Then I’ll kick you out.’

“ _Impossible_ ” Tom/Ginny hissed, before being bombarded by a mental message much stronger than the one before.

‘Ginny,’ Mark projected with as much force as he could muster. ‘Listen to me. Throw off Tom’s control. You can do it. Focus on yourself.’

“You dare —” Tom/Ginny spluttered before clutching her head and crying out in pain.

It was working. Ginny was fighting back. Mark watched from the side-lines as Ginny stumbled around in pain. After a moment she looked straight at him, her brown eyes struck with fear

“Basilisk. The eyes. Don’t look.”

The next moment, Tom took back control, the cold red eyes full of hatred. Still clutching his head.

“ _Kill him._ ”

A slow rumbling was audible, and Mark could make out the Serpent slithering its way towards him. A Basilisk. What did that even mean? ‘ _Don’t look._ ’ If that was the information Ginny thought the most important to share, he would heed by it. As Mark shut his eyes closed, he heard Tom hiss again.

“ _His eyes are closed. Your stare won’t work. Hunt him._ ”

Well, that eliminated all the other possible courses of action. Mark had only one alternative left; he needed to kill the snake before it killed him. Trusting his instincts, Mark fired of the strongest spell he knew towards it before sprinting off in the opposite direction.

“ _Diffindo_ ”

It must not have done any damage whatsoever since he heard Tom speak through Ginny again.

“You seriously believe a spell like that would affect a beast as powerful as a Basilisk. Its hide is impenetrable. It seems as though Ginny was— _aaugh_ ”

Ginny. She must be trying to fight again. As he ran for his life, Mark racked his brain. He needed a way to get rid of the bloody snake, and he needed a way to help Ginny regain control of herself. And he needed to do it _before_ he was snake feed.

Running blindly as he was, he struck his shoulder on a nearby pillar and almost stumbled.

“Fuck,” Mark groaned.

Priority number one—need to figure out some way to navigate safely. By now, Mark had a pretty good guess what the Basilisk could do. Both Tom and Ginny mentioned the snake’s eyes, so it was likely that the Basilisk had some form of lethal stare. That was what he had to work around. But how? He needed to think of some idea to track the snake’s head, some brainwave to —

Brainwave! That’s how. His legilimency could help him focus on the snake’s mind—and by extension, its head. Maybe he could even push it back, slow it down somehow. Using every ounce of his concentration, Mark focused on the reptilian mind currently pursuing him. He tried squeezing in on it, just like he had with Quirrell, hoping to maybe overwhelm it.

It didn’t work. All he managed to do was anger the great serpent, who began pulling back to strike with a lunge.

‘Shit’ Mark thought as he dived to the left, the huge head of the Basilisk missing him by a few inches. As he stumbled onto the ground, Mark felt the serpent pull back, this time slower than before. It was readying itself for a satisfying kill.

This was it. He was about to die.

Against his better instincts, Mark squinted slightly at the beast. Its mouth was wide open, its insides adorned with fangs long and thin as sabres, waiting to sink into his soft flesh —

Wait. _Open_ mouth? Acting by itself, Mark’s hand rose and aimed his wand at the roof of the Basilisk’s mouth.

“ _DIFFINDO!_ ”

* * *

“Nooooo!” Tom cried out in anger as the Basilisk was thrown back by the force of the spell, its blood spewing out of its mouth in a wide shower of red. It was all the distraction Ginny needed, and she pushed back onto Tom.

Ginny cursed herself. Why did she have to be so stupid and write in that diary? Her father had told her many times before: Never trust anything that had a mind of its own. Why didn’t she listen?

‘ _Stupid girl. Do you really believe you had any chance of resisting me? I enchanted that diary Ginevra, I, the Heir of Slytherin and the greatest sorcerer in the world. You never stood any chance_.’

‘So, it’s true? What Mark said? You’re V-V — You-Know-Who’

_‘Yes, Ginevra. You see now, why it is futile for you to try and resist? You cannot beat me. It is inevitable.’_

‘I thought you were my friend. I trusted you. With my thoughts, with my feelings, with —’

‘ _Yes, you did. You played your part beautifully, dear. I had not planned on taking complete control so soon, but now it will be easier this way. It will end soon.’_

The next moment, Ginny felt as if she was being squeezed inside a winch, Tom’s presence trying to push its way back into her mind.

‘Help me, _’_ she begged wildly. ‘Help me—please’

_‘No one is coming, Ginevra. Your mudblood friend can’t help you anymore. He may have managed to kill Salazar’s Serpent, but it was mere luck. Once I take over, I will kill him for his insolence._ ’

“NO!” Ginny pushed back with all her might. Tom faltered for a moment, and she managed to throw him out.

The moment she regained control of her body, she frantically reached out in her robes for the Diary. She was about to toss it away when she heard it again.

‘ _You cannot escape me, Ginevra. YOU’RE MINE._ ’

Not again. She couldn’t keep him away any longer. Tears trickled down her face as she began to accept her fate.

“Ginny?” Mark called out.

“I can’t. He’s too strong. The Diary—I’m so—so tired,” she mumbled, trying to convince herself of her own failure.

“GINNY!” she heard Mark call out, but she was done. There was no way out. No other —

Her thoughts were interrupted. Something landed in front of her with a loud clatter. It was a fang, from the mouth of the basilisk. She turned and looked at Mark, who seemed to be trapped under the body of the dead snake. He looked straight into her drooping eyes.

“Destroy it.”

Ginny’s eyes travelled back to the fang, her right arm inching slowly to grab it. She wrapped her hand around it and looked at the Diary in her left.

‘ _Will you do that to me?’_ Tom spoke to her once again, in the same friendly tone that she was familiar with—that he had befriended her in. _‘Me, who cared for you when no one did? You need me, Ginny, just like I need you._ ’

‘No, you don’t,’ said Mark’s voice, entering her consciousness like a jet of cold water. ‘You’re strong Ginny. You don’t need him, or anyone else. Friendship isn’t born out of need but from want. What is it that _you_ _want_?’

“To be free,” she whispered.

_“Stop this madness at once. You are just a silly little girl, who doesn’t know what’s good for her. Know your place, Ginevra. You will put that down at once and_ — _”_

But Ginny couldn’t take it further. She thrust the fang into the Diary, her anger and frustration finding their target. And it did. The Diary screamed—a long, dreadful, piercing scream. She knew it worked because she felt Tom’s pain; felt him writhing and twisting as ink spurted out of the Diary in torrents.

It was done. He was gone. It was like a huge boulder had been lifted off her head, her mind finally free to think for itself in weeks. There was silence once more, except for the steady drip of ink from the diary. Ginny looked down at it. The fang had done its job wonderfully, burning a sizzling hole right through the pages. She was free.

The realization hit Ginny like a ton of bricks, and tears started streaming down her face. Her body rocked as she sobbed, guilt finding its way to her heart.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	29. Guilt

7th November 1992

Mark groaned. Fighting a Basilisk seemed cool. Killing a Basilisk felt even cooler. Being pinned under the body of a Basilisk — not so much.

He needed to get himself out of here. His leg had gone numb under the crushing weight of the carcass, and Mark needed to know exactly how much damage it had done to his limb. Hesitantly, he edged his hand towards the dry, scaly skin of the snake, holding in all the disgust that was threatening to vomit itself inside himself. His fingers brushed against the greenish hide before he jerked it back in shock.

“Eeugh—I can’t do it. I can’t,” he muttered to himself, rubbing his hand vigorously over his shirt. Damn the reptiles, and damn the evolutionary process for ever creating them in the first place. He needed to find some other way—some way to get this bloody thing off of him without touching it.

Maybe he could use his wand; after all, if performed correctly, the effect of a levitation spell wasn’t dependent on the mass of the object. It could work—if he could get his hand on his wand, which had slipped from his hand when the dead basilisk fell on him. Turning his head, Mark’s eyes found the piece of ash-brown wood lying about two feet away from him. Stretching his hand, he tried to reach for the wand but came up a few inches short. He tried swiping back and forth in a vain attempt to touch it but still fell short. He then stretched his body, hoping to gain a longer reach, but immediately grunted out in pain. It was simple really: The more he stretched, the more his leg moved underneath the weight of the snake. The more his leg moved underneath the weight, the sharper the pain which shot up his thighs.

Mark steeled himself and tried reaching again. After a second or two, his fingers finally brushed against his wand. Ecstatic, he tried rolling it towards himself, his fingers curling to provide the required force. But luck was not on his side, and the desperate attempt only ended up giving the wand a push away from him.

“Shit,” he whispered. Before he could think of something else to do, Mark heard the soft sobs of Ginny echo through the chamber. Realising that she could help him, he tried to call her.

“Ginny,” he croaked, his throat parched. She must not have heard him, for there was no response. Gulping down to wet his throat, he tried again, louder this time.

“Ginny.”

“Huh,” Ginny looked around, and suddenly remembered. “Mark!” she cried as she stood up and hurried towards him. “Are you alright? Of course not. I’m so sorry. I—It’s all my fault. I’m—I’m—It’s all my fault—sorry” she broke down again into sobs.

“Ginny—Ginny!” Mark grabbed her attention. She looked straight at him with her tear-stained eyes, her face twisted with guilt.

“My wand?”

Looking towards where he was pointing, Ginny quickly grabbed the wand and handed it to Mark.

“All right —” Mark steeled himself. If what he remembered from first aid was right, this was going to hurt like hell. Pointing the wand towards the huge head of the Basilisk, he scrunched his face in concentration.

“ _Wingardium Leviosa._ ”

Although he barely whispered the words, they had the desired effect. The Basilisk slowly rose from where it had trapped his leg. Mark bit his lip to dull the pain from his leg. Moments later, he let the dead serpent drop unceremoniously.

“Shit,” Mark mumbled. The pain was much greater than he’d realised. He must have dislocated something when he had tried reaching for his wand.

“Don’t move,” Ginny ordered him, her helpless visage now replaced by a business-like expression. “It needs to be put in a splint. Wait here. Don’t move.”

Ginny got up and ran to where her wand had fallen. After picking it up, she returned swiftly. Squatting down, she turned to Mark and swallowed a visible lump in her throat.

“This is going to hurt some,” she said before pointing her wand at his leg and muttering something. Mark couldn’t make out what she said, but the immediate pain that hit his leg felt like a cricket bat to the knee. As his eyes opened up again, he could see that she had straightened his leg and conjured a splint around it.

“Now stay still,” she told him. “ _Episkey. Episkey. Episkey._ ” Mark felt the pain slowly ebb away from his leg, a sensation of numbness taking over instead. After a few moments, all he could feel was akin to a sprained ankle.

“Is it done?” he asked, partly impressed by the efficiency of Ginny’s actions

“I’m not sure. I’ve only seen Mum use that spell once before, when Fred fell off from his broom. It’s supposed to be used for minor injuries.” Ginny wrung her hands in nervousness.

“Hey, you did a good job with the splint,” Mark reassured her in a tired voice as he sat up slowly. “That looked quite advanced.” Ginny’s face dropped at this, her tears returning.

“What’s the matter? Ginny?”

“I — I — Tom taught — I learned it from — from him,” she slowly whispered.

“Oh.” Mark swallowed, unsure of how to reply. That was a bummer. “Well, it did come in handy,” he remarked. “Think of it as a silver lining.”

Ginny was now crying silently once more, her shoulders slowly racking in between the sobs.

“Ginny, what’s the matter?” Mark asked “It’s over. It’s done. He’s gone, Ginny. He can’t trouble you any further.”

“I know,” she replied.

“Then what’s the matter?”

“I—I’m afraid,” she finally whispered her reply.

“Of what?”

“Everyone else,” said Ginny. “What will they think—what will everyone say? I—I wrote the message, opened the Chamber. They’ll think I was the Heir. I tried attacking the school—was going to attack the students,” she spilt out in between her sniffed sobs. “They’ll expel me for this.”

Mark stared at her dumbly as he tried processing her words. Though he did not want to believe it, he was slowly realising the truth behind them.

“Dumbledore would understand, I think,” said Mark, in a weak attempt at reassuring Ginny. “He’ll understand that it was Voldemort. He’ll make sure you won’t be punished.”

“Maybe. But what of everyone else? Maybe they won’t expel me, but they’ll still blame me, wouldn’t they? They won’t forget it—will make sure I won’t forget it.”

Mark had never expected this reaction from Ginny. As she spilt out her thoughts, it was like he was seeing her for the first time—seeing the real Ginny. A girl who was angry at Tom Riddle; who was resentful towards the small-mindedness of the magical world. A girl who was scared of the future.

“I—I attacked Mrs Norris,” continued Ginny. “Almost killed her. Maybe they won’t say it to my face, but they’ll definitely say it behind my back. A dark witch—that’s what they’ll call me”

“I don’t think —” Mark began but was interrupted with a tear-filled look from Ginny.

“You tell me, Mark. If I was someone else—some other student that you found here. Someone you didn’t know as well. What would you have thought? Would you have accepted the truth as easily? That I wasn’t the Heir? That I—I wasn’t actually planning on—on attacking you?”

Her question tore at Mark’s heart like a piece of cardboard. This was what was eating at her the most—that she would have attacked him. And from a purely objective perspective, she wasn’t wrong. The more he thought about it, the more he realised that she was right. The gossip and rumour mill of Hogwarts was strong. From what Mark knew of the wizarding world, any hint of Dark Magic was persecuted by the people. No amount of explanations would suffice—Ginny would be vilified.

“They won’t talk to me. Play with me. Be friends with a dark witch like me,” she continued, “Mum will hate me. Ron will hate me. You know how he thinks of Slytherins,” she finished, her tone becoming more miserable every minute.

Mark made a decision. Looking straight at her he spoke clearly.

“No one needs to know.”

It took a moment for Ginny to absorb his statement.

“What?” She looked at him, her eyes puffed by crying. Mark took a deep breath and repeated himself.

“I said, no one needs to know. Nobody knows we’re down here, and nobody will know we were. Not unless we tell them. And we won’t.”

“But —”

“What does it matter anyway? The Diary is destroyed, the bloody snake is dead. Nobody’s in any danger anymore.”

Ginny stared at him in confusion—clearly, this wasn’t something she had ever considered.

“You’re hurt,” she said finally. “You can’t not show your leg to Madam Pomfrey. How will you explain that?”

“I was on my way to set up a prank near Ravenclaw Tower when I missed a trick step on the fourth-floor staircase,” Mark replied in a dispassionate tone. As far as cover stories went, it was fairly solid.

“You’ll get detention for it,” reminded Ginny. Mark realised she was trying to offer him a way out.

“More like a week’s worth,” he replied. “Still, a small price to pay. You didn’t hurt anyone Ginny. You shouldn’t suffer because of it.”

“But what about Mrs Norris? She was hurt —”

“She was petrified and will be back to normal once the Mandrake restorative potion is ready. So, we’ll be deprived of her charming personality for a few months.”

Ginny continued to stare at Mark with a peculiar expression—a stare which Mark didn’t back out of. As they locked gazes for what seemed like an eternity, Ginny finally broke the silence.

“You’d do that for me? Keep this a secret?”

“As long as needed,” Mark replied at once. “You’re my _friend_ , Ginny. It’s the least I could do.”

Ginny launched herself at Mark and hugged him tightly, burying her head in his shoulder. Mark patted her awkwardly as she silently sobbed into his shirt.

“Come on, let’s get out of here.” 

* * *

10th November 1992

_‘12.25’_

Mark yawned and slipped the pocket watch back into his pocket—it had once belonged to his grandfather. Still seated on the couch, he tried stretching himself. He reckoned that he could probably stay up for another hour or so.

Cracking his knuckles, he picked up the book lying face down on the couch beside him. Currently, he was occupied in reading through a chapter on the mechanics and properties of the Blood replenishing potion. It was used to treat acute blood loss—Mark hoped he could understand how the potion triggered the production of new blood inside the body. It was, in essence, accelerating regeneration capabilities of certain types of cells. Maybe combined with the Elixir…

Mark gave a deep sigh. Why on earth were wizards such terrible authors? The book was less a textbook on potions and more a detailed description of completely irrelevant historical events. Seriously, who and why would someone care that Elliot Harbinger was the minister of trade the year Gurdyroot imports went down, leading to use of Goosegrass in some potions?

Feeling a little cold, Mark stretched his legs and twiddled his toes. All perfectly normal. According to what Madam Pomfrey had said, the healing spells that Ginny used had stabilised the fracture in the bone, making it much easier for her to heal. Of course, Mark had to claim that he had done the spell on himself after he slipped in through the trick stair—something he wasn’t that happy taking the credit for. Still, his cover had held, and no one seemed to have any idea that anything was amiss. He even got an admiring pat on the back from Fred for ‘making efforts.’ Mark had been even more surprised when Professor McGonagall didn’t assign him any detention—obviously, she took twenty points from Gryffindor, but that was it. According to her, his broken leg was punishment enough.

Mark’s thoughts were interrupted as he saw Ginny come down the stairs from the girl’s dormitories. Her eyes went to the couch in front of the fireplace, and her face fell when she saw that it was occupied by some of the older students. She must have been hoping to sit in the warmth.

As her eyes scanned the common room, her gaze locked with Mark, who gave her a small smile. He watched as she slowly made her way over towards him. Her shoulders were slumped, her gait tired and her eyes shallow—quite unlike the girl he’d met on the Express.

“Couldn’t sleep?” asked Mark once she reached him. Giving just a tired shrug in reply Ginny plopped on the couch beside him. Her light blue pyjamas—which probably belonged to one of her older brothers at one time—hung loosely on her small frame. Even her usually vivid hair looked dull.

Ginny sat in silence, her eyes wandering nowhere in particular. She was deep in thought, and it looked like she wanted to get something off her chest.

“What is it?” Mark asked after a few minutes. Ginny opened her mouth to speak but closed it again. After another minute of silence, she finally spoke.

“It’s—It’s what everyone is talking about.” Her words started pouring out, eyes staring off into empty space. “Still talking about the chamber. Wondering what’s going to happen. Who’s responsible.” Ginny then looked straight at Mark. “They’ll find out, won’t they? What—What will happen when they do?”

Frankly, Mark wasn’t surprised by her words. This was what was troubling her, and it was something that was troubling him too. The imminent feeling of someone finding out—of his cover story falling apart. A niggling sense of paranoia swirled in the back of his mind, even after he had taken steps to check if the secret had spilt. Over the past two days, he had purposefully gleaned into the minds of almost all the students at school, trying to see if there was any suspicion about them; no one seemed to have any idea at all.

Wondering if Ginny had some different information to draw upon, Mark turned towards her.

“Why do you think they will find out?” he asked cautiously.

“The truth comes out, doesn’t it? I’m the one who — I’m responsible for it. They’ll know. And then they’ll hate me,” Ginny rambled.

Mark narrowed his eyes as he reflected on Ginny’s words. Something felt off. Whatever was fuelling her worry, it wasn’t the possibility of others finding out—at least not completely. It was more subtle, lying underneath and stemming from something else entirely.

Mark wished he could get a read on her, but entering her mind wasn’t the appropriate thing to do—especially in this situation. In fact, Mark was surprised by the fact that Ginny hadn’t asked him about his Legilimency yet, given everything that happened down in the Chamber. She obviously knew about Occlumency, since he had never been able to get a read on her ever since they met on the Express. Tom must have already taught her by then.

A fleeting thought suddenly entered Mark’s mind. Trusting his intuition, he decided to run with it.

“Do you want them to find out?”

Ginny snapped her head to look at Mark, her face betraying her thoughts for a moment.

“What? No!” she said immediately. “Of course not,” she added after a moment, her eyes darting around to avoid Mark’s gaze. Realising his instinct was correct, Mark took a moment to choose his words carefully.

“Because it sounds like you do,” he said. “Look, Ginny. You’re a good person—you have a good heart. You’re—you’re a Gryffindor inside,” Mark rambled for a few moments as he tried to search for the correct words. “You think—you are thinking that you are a coward—No that’s not —”

“What are you trying to say?” Ginny interrupted him.

“Just—let me finish, okay? Where was I — Oh, yes. You’re a Gryffindor. You think by hiding this you’re being a coward, and that’s what feels wrong to you. About hiding this I mean.”

“You’re saying that I’m being too noble?” asked Ginny, finally catching on to his train of thought. “Isn’t that the right thing to do? Telling the truth?”

“Why?” Mark asked, coming to his point at once.

“Why what?”

“Why is it the right thing to do?” He spoke pointedly. “And right for whom? What—what exactly will happen if the students of Hogwarts know the truth? Will it change anything for them? What repercussion will keeping all this a secret have on the others? None. What repercussions will it have on you? Everything.”

Ginny didn’t say anything in response, but her face betrayed the conflict within. Mark continued. “People will still talk about it, turn it into gossip before promptly forgetting it. As I said earlier Ginny, the threats are gone. Who will we be helping by telling everyone? Who will we be hurting?”

A few minutes passed, neither of them saying a world. Ginny’s eyes darted across the floor, trying to make herself believe the truth; Mark’s stayed fixed on her. Finally, Ginny leaned back, her gaze pointed at the ceiling.

“It still feels wrong,” she whispered.

“It does. Because in your heart, you think you are guilty,” he said. “Because in your heart—deep within—you are a good person who thinks she deserves to be punished.”

“But I —”

“No, you don’t. Are you guilty of writing in a blank Diary? Yes. Are you guilty of opening the Chamber and attacking Mr Filch’s cat? Bloody hell no.”

A neutral silence followed Mark’s words—the crackling of the wood in the fireplace drawing Mark’s attention to the fact that they were now alone in the common room. Deciding to give Ginny some space to reflect on the issue, Mark turned back to the passage on the reactants of the Blood replenishing potion. He was soon engrossed in its pages, while Ginny snuggled into the cushions as she stared into the dying embers of the fireplace. It was quite a while later that she finally broke the silence.

“Maybe what you said …” she trailed off

“Hmm?” Mark was still absorbed in his book. Realising Ginny had spoken something, he tore his eyes away from the page and looked at her. She looked straight at him.

“Dumbledore. You said he’ll understand?” she asked.

“I think so. He’s—He’s different.” Mark couldn’t exactly explain himself. His encounter with the Headmaster after the incident in June had left a favourable impression of Professor Dumbledore on Mark. Underneath the powerful wizard and a magical genius, Mark had seen that the Headmaster was a kind and thoughtful person.

“Do you trust him?” Ginny asked, her voice cracking.

“With this? I would,” Mark answered confidently. “If I’m not wrong, he’ll even agree to keep it a secret,” he added after a moment. “You want to tell him?”

Ginny’s face betrayed the conflict inside her.

“Maybe—I don’t know. I need some time to think,” she said. Mark nodded silently in response. Ginny continued, “What if he insists that my parents be told?”

She didn’t want to tell her parents about this? The way she said it, Mark guessed she’d rather have everyone else _but_ her parents know about it.

“You don’t want them to know?”

Ginny looked unsure of her answer. Taking a moment, she answered slowly.

“My Dad, yes. My mother—I’m not sure. She’ll either love me to death or blame me for my stupidity. Sometimes I —” she trailed off. Mark felt a small stab of envy.

“You’re lucky to have her, you know.”

It took Ginny a moment before the realisation hit her and her face took on a horror-struck expression. Immediately, she tried to apologise.

“Oh no. That was so stupid. I’m so —”

“It’s alright,” Mark interrupted. “Really, it’s Okay.”

Ginny nodded reluctantly and kept silent for a few moments before trying to change the subject.

“Will you tell Dumbledore?” she asked in a timid voice.

Mark felt confused. She didn’t want to tell Dumbledore herself?

“Do you want me to?” Ginny’s face took on a guilty expression, and Mark understood what she’d been trying to imply. She was worried if he would go to Dumbledore himself—tell the Headmaster behind her back. Her guilt was still eating at her.

“No, I’m not telling anyone until you give me the signal.” Mark took a pause. “You’re the affected party here, Ginny. It’s your life, and it’s your decision. Remember what I told you down there? I’m your friend, Ginny. If and when you take a decision—whatever that decision maybe—I’ll support you.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Chamber of Secrets wrapped up! As is evident, the Basilisk and the Diary have been taken care of well before they were in Canon. The fact that no student was attacked and that Mark and Ginny are deciding to keep this a secret will have some solid repercussions on the plot. In my opinion, this is the central plot point of Book One, and was one of the first cornerstones in the development of this story. I hope you enjoyed reading this just as much as I enjoyed creating it.
> 
> Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	30. Rumours

12th November 1992

“Excuse me, sorry, excuse me —"

Neville tried to bustle his way through the sea of students in front of him as he made his way towards the entrance hall. Professor Sprout had asked him to assist her with the weekly trimming of the Mandrakes today, and that was where he was headed; greenhouse number two.

As he kept pushing through the crowd, Neville wondered just what these people were doing in the corridor. This wasn’t usually a busy passage like the Charms corridor, nor was it particularly popular with loitering kids. So, what exactly were all these students doing here now? Before he could think anymore about the question, a voice broke in from further up the corridor.

“Gather ‘round, gather ‘round —” Drawn to the attention-grabbing words, Neville pushed through some of the taller kids in front of him.

“What in the —” Neville muttered as he took in the peculiar sight in front of him. An older Ravenclaw student—a sixth year named Trumper, if Neville remembered correctly—was standing on one side of the corridor and inviting everyone around to come near. In front of him was a small table covered with a plain white cloth, and on it was a bizarre collection of items put up on display. As Neville’s gaze scanned the table, he noticed a modest selection of talismans, bracelets and different sorts of protective artefacts. On one side were small vials of colourful powders and one the other a small stack of greenish roots. As Neville stared dumbly at the table and its contents, Trumper began to speak to the gathered crowd in front of him

“Come here, folks. These are some of the best defences you can buy to ward off evil. Look at this. Genuine Egyptian ankh. Will protect you from any monsters that are lurking nearby, eh. And this. The bracelet of Cliodne. Keeps away pesky spirits who try and interfere. Here—take a look at this—you’ll need this if you’re a muggleborn mate. The Heir will be after you. Even you Wiggins. I don’t remember old Slytherin being too friendly with the half-bloods either —”

Trumper’s words had an immediate effect as whispers broke out in the crowd. The rumours regarding the Chamber had been swirling around amongst the student body ever since that ominous message had appeared on Halloween two weeks ago. As there had been no attack since, a wave of calm had just begun to settle in when someone pointed out the astronomical significance of Halloween; everyone immediately started working out the next significant astronomical event on which the attack might happen.

Having lived in the wizarding world all his life, Neville knew better than to be dismissive towards protective magic and the supposed ‘ignorant superstitions.’ From the many stories that his Gran and great uncle Algie had told him, Neville knew that magic worked in all sorts of mysterious ways. As the students around him began whispering about the seriousness of the threat looming over them, Neville found himself wondering about the same question as them. Were they really safe?

Even though the other purebloods like him weren’t bothered by the message on Halloween, Neville had a niggling doubt in the back of his mind. After all, before coming here to Hogwarts, Neville had been considered a near squib by his family, hadn’t he? Would that not be something the Heir would take into account? Squibs were considered the lowliest by the blood supremacists—after all, the first attack had been on Mr Filch’s cat. There was a good chance that he might be targeted.

And even if he was safe, what about his friends? The Weasleys were well-known blood traitors, while Mark was a muggleborn. What would happen if the Heir attacked him? After all, Mark hadn’t exactly kept his head down over the past year whenever Malfoy had tried instigating any quarrels.

If there was one thing that Neville was sure of, it was that Mark would never buy any of this protective stuff. If he wanted his friend to be safe, Neville would have to buy something himself and then find some way to stick it inside Mark’s bag. Finalising on this course of action, Neville stepped forward and began to examine the stuff that Trumper had displayed on the table in front of him.

Most of it looked genuine—not that Neville had any idea how to check for that kind of stuff. His attention was drawn to the large green bulbs kept on the corner. He picked one up and examined it closer. Bringing it to his nose, he took a whiff.

“Here mate—that’s Bavarian Gurdyroot. The best in the business for general protection against dark magic. Yours for seven sickles”

Gurdyroot? This wasn’t Gurdyroot. He knew that because he had some actual Gurdyroot growing in the greenhouse at his home.

“No, it’s not. This isn’t Gurdyroot. It’s an onion. It’s a rather large one, but still an onion.”

Trumper got a bit shifty at that and acted as if he hadn’t heard Neville’s words. He began paying attention to the other students who were looking at the Egyptian ankhs. Realising something was amiss, Neville spoke again—this time even louder.

“Wait. Does any of this stuff actually work?” asked Neville. “Where did you get all this in the first place?”

Now that he remembered, Trumper was a muggleborn. There was no place he could have gotten all this from. Neville’s words seemed to have its effects, for the people broke out into whispers at them. Trumper—sensing that it was better to wrap up his spiel—began to move quickly and started packing up all the stuff on the table. With a wave of his wand, the table folded itself and disappeared inside a smallish bag that he was carrying, while the white tablecloth shrank into a handkerchief that he deftly pocketed.

“Well, the sale’s over folks. I need to be somewhere. If you need any such stuff to protect yourself, you know where to find me.” Stretching his hand, Trumper grabbed the fake Gurdyroot from Neville’s hand and put it back in his bag. Shouldering the straps, he spoke in a louder voice than before.

“Remember chaps, the monster in the Chamber is still out there. Only a matter of time before it and the Heir comes for one of us. Better be safe than sorry.”

Neville stared dumbstruck as he watched the Ravenclaw expertly disappear into the crowd. As the students began to disperse off, Neville stood there still lost in his thoughts. It was only after he realised that the corridor was empty again that he remembered Professor Sprout and the Mandrakes. Shaking his head, he decided to put away these thoughts and began moving towards the greenhouses.

* * *

Harry skipped on the grass path as he made his way to Hagrid’ hut. The sun was out and the air was fresh—as Harry took in a deep breath as he kicked a pebble at his feet further down the path. He had been itching to be outside ever since he had been released from the Hospital Wing, but apart from a brief walk near the lake, he hadn’t gotten the opportunity to truly stretch his legs. In all honesty, the fresh air that was filling his lungs now was just making him want to hop on his Nimbus and go off for a fly. But since Madam Pomfrey had been adamant about him not flying for at least a week, Harry was here doing the next best thing. As he neared his destination, Hagrid’s large frame appeared into his view; he could make out a sizeable bunch of radishes in Hagrid’s hand.

“Heya Harry!”

“Hey, Hagrid. How are you?” Harry slowed down on the path, trying to avoid the slippery moss that had appeared in some places. He noticed Hagrid’s beetle-like eyes searching for something, or rather someone, behind him.

“I’m good, Harry, I’m good. Where’s Ron and Hermione?”

Harry rolled his eyes inwardly. Why did everyone find it odd if he was somewhere by himself?

“Oh. Well, they’re—well, Hermione’s already studying for the term exams, and Ron’s feeling a bit under the weather.” Addressing the worry on Hagrid’s face, he added immediately, “Nothing serious, he’s just sleeping it off.” Hagrid nodded in understanding and gestured Harry to follow him inside.

“Come to visit me then? Want a cuppa tea?”

“Yes, thank you,” Harry said, as he entered through the large doorway to the hut, rubbing his hands over his shoulders. He sat down on one of the chairs, while Hagrid shuffled around and put the kettle on.

“So ‘Arry, how’s your arm?” Hagrid asked, his back still towards Harry.

“Good. It's back to normal, I guess,” he replied, his fingers instinctively curling into a tight grip. He shrugged his shoulder to feel the regrown socket. “But somehow I can still feel the bones growing inside me. Madam Pomfrey says the sensation should go away in another week. It’s just my mind playing tricks on me,” he finished.

“Bloody Lockhart,” Harry heard Hagrid mutter under his breath as he poured the tea into two mugs.

“You don’t like him? Professor Lockhart?” Harry asked with a slight surprise. It was unlike Hagrid to criticize or curse a professor. Even last year Hagrid had kept defending Snape whenever they spoke. Granted, it turned out that Snape was on Professor Dumbledore’s side. But for Hagrid to actually say that about Lockhart? Evidently, Hagrid noticed the slip of his tongue and tried to cover it up.

“Ah, Harry. It’s nothing, nothing at all.” Harry looked at him sceptically, trying to urge him to say the truth. Finally, Hagrid relented.

“Well, I shouldn’t say this seeing he’s your Professor an’ all, but no, I don’t like tha’ man,” he finished hesitantly.

“Really? I don’t think he’s a good teacher at all,” Harry said with confidence. “He isn’t actually teaching us anything useful in class. Ron agrees with me too,” he took a pause, “Hermione disagrees, obviously. Says anyone who Professor Dumbledore hired must have been good enough for the job.”

Hagrid snorted into his mug of tea. “More like the only one for the job,” he said darkly.

“What?” Harry spurted out. Surely Hagrid was joking, right? Hagrid took another sip of his tea before explaining.

“He was the only applicant for the Defence position this year. People don’t want it, you see.”

“Why?” Harry asked, and realised immediately that it was the wrong thing to say. Hagrid realised that he had revealed a little too much, and Harry could see the wheels turning in his head as he considered telling everything. Finally, Hagrid spoke.

“There’s rumours—rumours mind you, tha’ the positions cursed. No one lasts as the Defence professor for more than a year. Dumbledore has to call for new applicants every year.”

“What? Since when—how long?” Harry asked, his tea now forgotten and cold.

“Hmm. Let me think.” Hagrid leaned back and closed his eyes, his mind trying to work out the answer to Harry’s question. “The last defence professor I remember seeing stick around was Professor Wilkes. Right,” he nodded to himself. “Dumbledore sacked ‘im a few years after he became the Headmaster. That was what, ’68, 69’? Yeah since ’69 I reckon,” he finished, now looking back at Harry. Harry’s mind raced as he made the calculations.

“That’s more than twenty years! You’re saying there’s never been a Defence professor at Hogwarts longer than a year since then?” he exploded in realisation. He was on the edge of his seat now, trying to make sense of this new information. “Has Professor Dumbledore checked for a curse? Is it even possible to put a curse on something like that?”

Hagrid just shrugged in reply as he sipped on his tea. In Harry’s opinion, the attitude Hagrid had towards all this seemed a bit a callous; then again, after all this time he must have been used to the idea now.

“Dunno,” replied Hagrid, setting down the mug in his hand. “Dumbledore did check for it, does so every year,” he tried reassuring Harry. “But so far, he hasn’t found evidence of anything yet.”

An uncomfortable silence permeated the cosy hut as Harry pondered over Hagrid’s words. After a moment, Hagrid decided to take control of the conversation again.

“Anyway, they’re matters best left alone. So, Harry, how’s the classes? You enjoying at Hogwarts?” he asked. “I heard from Professor Flitwick tha’ you were one of the top students last year,” Hagrid remarked, his tone filled with pride, “Didn’t I tell you that you’d be a thumping good wizard once you got yourself trained up?”

Harry found his mouth curl into a genuine smile as he remembered the day Hagrid had rescued him from the Dursleys, and what a nervous wreck he had been on his first visit to Diagon Alley. Taking a long sip from his now cold tea, Harry replied in a soft voice.

“It’s good, Hagrid. It’s great,” said Harry. “It’s much—It’s much better, you know, than—than before,” he added with a sad smile. Looking at Hagrid, whose face was turning dark, Harry smiled more naturally.

“Thank you, for bringing me to Hogwarts, Hagrid,” Harry said to his first friend in the magical world. “Thanks for everything that you did for me.”

“Jus’ doing my job, Harry, jus’ doin’ my job.”

* * *

_1943 - Special Award for Services to the School (regards to the incident ~~with the death of Ms Warren~~ )_

Bloody Hell. _Death_ of Ms Warren? Did he kill someone the last time?

As Mark continued reading the file, he became increasingly pissed off. Evidently, Tom Riddle had managed to fool everyone that he had met.

After Ginny had told him the full name of Voldemort, Mark’s curiosity had been piqued. Logically, it was obvious that Voldemort must have been a student once. But to actually think of him as one? That had been difficult to fathom. In any case, given the rumours of the Chamber having been opened before, it didn’t take Mark to connect the dots to the fact that Voldemort must have opened it while he was still in school.

So here he had come, to the student records room. Mr Filch was busy with the fifth-floor portraits today, so it had been the perfect time to sneak around. He didn’t have any idea where to begin, and they weren’t taught the point-me spell until the fifth year, which could have come in handy today—Mark promised himself to learn it as soon as possible. So, he had to do his search manually.

He had a fair idea of the time period. Voldemort was at the height of his powers in the 1970’s. Therefore, it was likely that he was probably older than thirty then. That would put him in Hogwarts sometime before 1955. So, that’s where Mark decided to begin his search.

It took him about twenty minutes of searching before he struck gold; back then the number of students at Hogwarts was about three times the present. But he did find him, in a plain manila folder with the Hogwarts crest and Class of 1945 neatly printed on the front.

 

_Tom Marvolo Riddle_

_Attended - 1938 to 1945_

_House - Slytherin_

_1943 - Prefect for Slytherin House_

_1943 - Special Award for Services to the School (regards to the incident with ~~the death of Ms Warren~~ )_

_1944 - Received twelve O.W.L. certifications, three with Distinction._

_1945 - Head Boy_

_1945 - Transfiguration Award_

_1945 - Arithmancy Award_

_1945 - Received eight N.E.W.T certifications, three with Distinction._

_Point of Contact - 1938 - 1945 Wool’s Orphanage, London_

_\- 1945 - Borgin and Burkes, Diagon Alley_

 

Mark closed the file and glanced at his pocket watch. He had been here for nearly thirty minutes. Committing the entry to memory, he placed the file back where he found it and left the records room as inconspicuously as possible. As he made his way back to the common room, his mind reeled with confusion.

Why the hell did a guy like Riddle go to work in a shop? Wasn’t he from a wizarding family? So why was he in an orphanage in London? None of it made any sense. Looking back, it was glaringly obvious that Riddle was the likely culprit in whatever incident that happened in ’45 that he had gotten an award for.

‘Shit,’ Mark cursed inwardly. He should have checked the record for that Ms Warren who Tom had attacked and probably killed. It would have certainly given him more insight into whatever had happened.

As much as Mark wished to put this all behind him, the whole business with the Chamber, the Basilisk, and Tom Riddle was something that was trespassing on his thoughts again and again. There were times when he found himself lost in thought, wondering exactly why Slytherin had built the Chamber in the first place—something about the story Professor Binns told them in class wasn’t making sense to him. If it wasn’t this which encroached Mark’s thoughts, then it was the uneasy realisation that he had had near-death experiences at Hogwarts in the past six months. Twice.

When Mark had gone to the library, he hadn’t found any mention to the Basilisk in any of the books on magical creatures. Frankly, it was something he had expected—after all, if the basilisk had been a beast of common knowledge, then the identity of Slytherin’s monster would not have been a mystery to everyone. So, Mark then decided to check the restricted section in the Room of Requirement. After scanning through a dozen books on rare magical creatures—which, by the way, looked quite interesting—he finally found a reference in a fairly ominous passage. After reading and rereading it a dozen times, it was practically burned into his mind.

 

> _Of the many fearsome beasts and monsters that roam our land, there is none more curious or more deadly than the Basilisk, known also as the King of Serpents. Its methods of killing are most wondrous, for aside from its deadly and venomous fangs, the Basilisk has a murderous stare, and all who are fixed with the beam of its eye shall suffer instant death._

Instant death. No big deal. One thing was certain—Mark had never been more glad that he had listened to Ginny down in the Chamber. She had practically saved his life.

And it wasn’t just the deathly stare that had freaked Mark out. When they had returned from the Chamber, Mark had slipped a basilisk fang into one of his pockets, hoping to keep it as a memento of having killed a bloody forty-foot snake. It was stupid in hindsight, but it had been an instinctive reaction for him then, and he hadn’t given it much thought after he dropped it inside his trunk. That changed the moment he read about the Basilisk. Mark had immediately hurried back to his dorm and carefully wrapped the fang in a spare cloth before packing it in one of the spare sections of his trunk—of course, he had had no idea that it was loaded with _the most potent venom in existence_.

His mother’s locket was another thing that had grabbed Mark’s attention; or rather its absence. He had been in the shower when he reached for it out of habit and found it missing. After searching everywhere—even using the summoning charm to help in the effort—Mark found no trace of the locket anywhere. The only conclusion he could draw from this was that it must have broken off its chain sometime during his confrontation with the Basilisk. The only way he could make certain of it was by going down to the Chamber, and Mark wasn’t particularly keen to return to that god-forsaken place.

Actually, if he thought about it, Mark was pretty sure that his mother wouldn’t mind his losing the family heirloom—given that it had happened during a fight with a forty-foot killer snake. Though there wasn’t any way to be sure, Mark liked to believe that his mother would have been proud of her son. At least a bit.

As his feet carried him over the castle floor, Mark soon found himself outside the Gryffindor portrait hole. His thoughts were drawn back to reality the moment he stepped inside and saw Ginny get up from the couch; clearly, she had been waiting for him. Looking around, he saw a small alcove at the back of the common room that was currently unoccupied. Mark gestured Ginny to follow him there, and she immediately nodded in agreement.

“What’s up?” he asked her once they reached the alcove. Ginny looked odd; she wasn’t standing still and kept twisting her fingers in nervousness, but her eyes reflected a grim resoluteness of having made a decision.

“I want to tell him.”

“Hmm?”

“Dumbledore.” Ginny centred herself and stood still. “I want to tell him.” Her eyes quickly darted around the common room, as she continued. “The rumours. They’re getting out of hand. I—I think it’s the right thing to do. Telling him.”

Mark waited until her eyes stopped wandering and returned to meet his own.

“Are you sure?” he asked in a neutral tone. He wanted to make sure she had reached the decision without any external pressure.

“Yes. But only him.”

“What if he insists about telling your Mum and Dad?”

Ginny shrugged in resignment. Mark nodded. She had made her decision.

“Alright then,” said Mark. “Tomorrow’s Friday. We’ll go on Saturday after the reserve practices.” Looking at Ginny’s slightly confused expression, he continued, “When you speak with him, time is the one thing that should not be a constraint.”

Ginny nodded in agreement, and her gaze darted around in nervousness. Mark saw the shell that she had propped her confidence on crack and her nervousness return.

“You’ll come with me?” she finally asked, her eyes pointed down at her feet.

“I will,” Mark said. She was still looking down. “Ginny,” he called her, and her eyes returned to meet his. “I’ll be there. Okay?”

“Okay.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter done, and the only one for a while. The next chapter will be posted after a few months, likely in December 2019/January 2020. There are a few other things and upcoming exams that I need to focus on for a while, so no new chapters will be released until then. I might work occasionally on editing/reworking the older chapters, so those will be the only updates for a while. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the direction the story is taking. Now that the divergences have begun, the story and character development starts to flourish. The next chapters (when released) will slowly shift focus on Harry and his arc/adventure for Year 2. The changes are significant, and so will their repercussions be.
> 
> Fun fact: The character of Trumper was inspired by the character from Jeffrey Archer's As the Crow Flies
> 
> Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews and Questions are welcome. Do let me know if you find any internal inconsistencies in the story. Since I'm not British, any suggestions/corrections regarding the UK/culture are also welcome.


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